


General Lavellan

by Feynite



Series: Looking Glass Kid!Fic AU's [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Looking Glass, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:23:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6529174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, on my tumblr I got asked what might happen if Lavellan had via the wondrous convenience of inexplicable magic been sent back to ancient times as a fully ancient elvhen infant instead of her typical self. This lead to, essentially, three speculative plotlines wherein she was taken in and cared for by different people.</p><p>This is the collection of prompt fills based around the timeline where Lavellan fell way, way back in things, and was found and raised by Haninan and Ireth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Found

Ireth often ventures away from the general bustle of camp; to clear her thoughts, and meditate on her dreams, and commune with old spirits. Haninan goes with her from time to time, but mostly he leaves her to it. There are paths which his wife’s mind prefers to wander in solitude. He makes the camp breakfast, most mornings, and eases himself by watching for the glimmer of her scales until she has moved beyond his sight. 

This morning, however, Ireth is not gone for long before she comes rushing back.

Haninan knows that something has happened almost immediately. His wife is in her elven form; hastily changed, he thinks, as her golden horns still curl atop her head, and wings and a tail still beat at her back. In her arms she is carrying a bundle, wrapped in her own shirt.

“Haninan!” she calls. There is a cloud of misery and grief and confusing whirling around her. It terrifies him, until he realizes that it is not hers; and then it still concerns him, as the camp is roused by the sound of their Keeper’s voice ringing out, and the air filling with distress.

“What happened?” he asks, already rushing over.

He comes up short when he sees the baby.

Ireth’s eyes are a little wild.

“I almost stepped on her!” she says. “I was passing through the grove, and she was just lying there, in the grass. I might not have noticed her but for her distress. She is inconsolable! Haninan, who leaves a baby alone like that?” 

Ireth’s voice breaks, the atmosphere obviously affecting her. It is affecting him, too. This feels incredibly surreal; he would not believe it, except that his wife is holding the proof in her arms. ‘Inconsolable’, as betrayed by the air around her, but also eerily quiet. He moves forward, and puts an arm around Ireth’s shoulders.

“She is not crying,” he notes, peering down into the infant’s face.

The eyes that stare back at him look unnervingly distant. The child, he notes, fits but does not; she is scarred and ravaged on the insides, broken and reshaped and tossed through the winds. He does not know what to make of it. It is horrifying. He reaches over and brushes her cheek, and finds it is smooth and soft, as his son’s once was. The touch turns from a tentative one to a more comforting gesture almost automatically, settling at the side of the infant’s face.

That cracks something open. Simplicity in the confusion. Comfort.

The baby begins to cry.

“Oh,” Ireth says, as if it is almost a relief. She shifts her hold on the infant, tears prickling her own eyes. “It is alright, little one. It is alright. You are safe now. We have you.”

More of the rest of the camp ventures close, drawn in by the unexpected but distinctive cries of an infant. After a few minutes, Ireth gives her bundle over to Haninan.

“She will need food,” his wife declares. “And proper clothes. A cradle, and diapers, and something soft to hold, for comfort. I will gather some things; keep the others from gawking at her too much.”

He nods, and settles the still-crying infant against his heart. The poor thing is lost to the storm of her despair. He carries her to the nearest unoccupied aravel, and firmly waves off the others while beckoning June towards him.

“Where did the baby come from?” his son asks, as shocked as anyone.

“We don’t know. Your mother found her in the grove,” Haninan says. “I need you to go and tell the others to keep their distance, until she has settled down. Her distress is too potent.”

June nods in agreement, and keeps his distance from the distorted emotions. He does look curiously at the baby, though, before squaring his shoulders and heading off into the camp. Haninan hears him instructing the others and explaining what has happened - or what little they know of it, rather.

He presses a hand to the baby’s back, and begins to hum.

Poor little mystery.

Poor little puzzle.


	2. Giggles

Haninan is on a mission.

The mission is a fairly straight-forward one. Not dangerous. But absolutely vital, he thinks. He looks down at the baby in his arms. It has been an ongoing campaign, and so far, distressingly fruitless. But he has no intention of giving up.

His tiny daughter stares back up at him uncertainly. Radiating general nervousness and anxiety and little tiny puffs of confusion, that keep crashing against his heartstrings as he tries to alleviate them. Poor discarded little treasure, with too much heart beating in her chest.

He smiles at her. 

And then he starts making faces.

He tries all the ones that used to work on June, before he begins innovating new ones. Throws in some funny sounds. Odd hand gestures. Little magic sparks, but he abandons those quickly as her nervousness spikes. He flops his ears and crosses his eyes.

His baby stares at him.

Not so much as a giggle.

The front flap of one of the tents opens behind him, and June walks out and promptly trips over the threshold, his feet tangling in a rug that had gotten bunched up too close to the entrance. Haninan sees his shadow, first, flailing in the sunlight, and then turns and watches his eldest plant face-first into the ground.

His baby giggles.

Haninan beams at her, and burst of relief breaking in his chest.

“Well done, son!” he calls.

“What?” June demands, angrily, picking himself up out of the dirt.

“You made the baby laugh,” he explains, joggling her a little and angling her more towards her brother, wondering if she will do it again. No such luck, but she does seem to still be a bit amused.

June scowls.

“Oh, _brilliant,”_ his eldest grumbles. But as he glances at his sister, his expression softens, just a little. “You better not turn out to be one of _those_  siblings.” he warns her.

The baby looks at him, and curls a hand anxiously towards her mouth. Her delight ebbs.

Haninan sighs, and kisses the top of her head.

“Do not worry,” he tells her. “That was progress.”


	3. June's Sister

She is very glad that the first time she sees Pride, he is a wolf.

And also glad that she recognizes him. Though it has been a long, long time, it does not take her but a moment to see the white wolf at Mythal’s side, and hear him speak, and know who he must be.

Even so, it is a shock enough without suddenly seeing his face again. It drags her back, thousands of years, to another life; for a moment the grief feels fresh again. A whole world, lost. A failure she cannot dare to repeat. Faces she will never see again. A handful of years that shaped and defined her so thoroughly, she will never escape it.

And Solas.

Always, enduringly, Solas.

She stamps down on her emotions. She does not talk to the wolf that meeting, or Mythal; but June’s forces are primarily collaborating with Falon’Din’s people at the moment, and so it is far from surprising. Falon’Din himself is insufferable, but thoroughly distracting. It always takes a particular amount of effort to keep him from throwing allied forces to the enemy so as to preserve his own.

The second time she sees him, though, the meeting is to discuss more long-term matters. She braces herself for it. Even so, he comes as an elf. Dressed in white silks and furs, and ceremonial armour. He looks… younger, to her eye. And he is younger; he cannot have more than a few hundred years to him. He is younger compared to himself, and compared to her, now, too. But he observes his manners well. His emotions are properly restrained; though his expression are telling. He smiles too readily, and speaks more than he should, given his station. There is very little of the weight that the man in her memories had carried about his shoulders.

He is radiant and beautiful.

During the full council meeting, he interrupts partway through to suggest re-routing troops on foot through a small patch of wilderness, to gain a more strategic approach than the one which the eluvians would allow.

“Someone muzzle that pup,” one of Sylaise’s generals - Splendour - replies, rolling his eyes.

“Shut up,” she finds herself snapping, before she can think the better of it. “it is a good idea, for anyone whose troops are not too ill-equipped to handle it. I have been saying for months now that we need better travel provisions for forces in this region. If we had them, we could gain an upper-hand that might secure us the entire mountain basin.  _Instead,_  even though a relative newcomer here can clearly see the opportunity, I am going to have to explain to him why our people would  _die_  attempting a week long journey.”

She turns towards Pride, who colours a little at the sudden upsurge of attention directed his way.

“We would need to send for supplies before we could move them out through that route, and in the time it would take to get them there, the opportunity would be lost,” she explains, forcing him to meet his gaze, and to swallow down any surge of unruly feeling it prompts in her. She has to deal with this; she  _has_  to.

She turns back to the table at large, and a few rolled eyes at her usual ‘antics’. 

After the meeting is done, June glances at her.

“That was uncommonly vociferous of you,” he notes.

“I am sick to death of ill-equipped forces. It is not as if we lack the means to outfit them better,” she replies.

“So I gathered,” he says, running a hand down the side of his face.

She takes pity on him.

“Go and see Sylaise, Brother. Enjoy some time together. I will deal with the messengers and reports and let you know if anything urgently needs your attention,” she tells him.

“Do not resupply the troops without my say-so,” he warns.

“Would I do a thing like that?”

“You  _have_  done that. That exact thing!” he replies. But there is no real heat to it. June does not care as much for war as he does for proving himself, and there are easier avenues for him to accomplish the latter than the former. He goes with only a little grumbling. She thinks, as she has not for some time, on the days when his name denoted a distant and grandiose figure of mythology to her, and not a difficult older sibling.

She is taking missives from the city scouts, still in the meeting hall, when she turns and suddenly finds herself face-to-face with the figure who keeps haunting her thoughts.

Mythal’s Pride.

He takes a hurried step back, and ducks his head.

“My apologies, General,” he says. “I did not mean to stand too close. I, um… well, I only wished to thank you. For your defence of my suggestion. I know it was improperly done, I should have not spoken so urgently or without leave.”

She stares at him a moment, and then draws in a deep breath.

“I am not much for decorum, Commander. If you have a worthy notion, I appreciate hearing it. Let the politicians worry over who is speaking out of turn or without the appropriate ego-stroking to their superiors,” she finds herself saying. 

Pride nods, hastily.

“That is… much appreciated. Though, I am no commander. I have not been afforded an official military rank yet,” he admits.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Commander is the lowest rank permitted to these meetings, currently. If Mythal has seen fit to bring you without petitioning for such standards to change, then so far as I am concerned, she has bestowed that rank to you,” she declares. “Do not go around telling people you have no official rank. It would be troublesome for you, and untrue besides.”

Pride blinks at her, and then blinks again, before nodding. She catches some nerves wavering about him. Then he begs her pardon, and at last flees the council chambers.

At the next day’s meeting, he is, if anything, more vocal than before. His voice provokes a strange mixture of sorrow and longing and nostalgia in her. It makes Dirthamen glance in her direction; but one more secret for his hoard is not of much concern to her, at the moment. And she finds, too, that it is unexpectedly pleasant to converse with him again. It feels like it is ripping open old scars, and soothing them at the same time. By the time the meeting is half done, they are exchanging ideas readily across the divide of the meeting table, and have devised solutions to several persistent problems. Much to the consternation of many of the other ranking elves in attendance.

“ _Who_ is he?” General Lathim, of Elgar’nan’s forces, asks her during a break for refreshments. The man nods towards Pride, who is dressed in yet more ceremonial armour. It gleams just a little too brightly on him. Distracts from his freckles, she thinks.

“That is Commander Pride. Mythal brought him, likely because he is a talented observer and strategist,” she replies.

“That is what you said about Glory; and Glory turned out to be little more than a fragile trophy,” Lathim notes.

She puts down her drink, and promptly decks him clean across the jaw.

He staggers, cursing, and his magic flares. Her own rises up, battering down the barrier he is trying to raise as she advances on him, and lands another blow. This one sends him sprawling. Lathim is not much of a brawler, it must be said.

“Oh,  _come on,_  it has been five hundred years!” he spits, this time successfully lifting his barrier. It holds long enough for him to get to his feet and stagger back a few steps. Onlookers gather as she draws her blade.

“And yet, I am still offended! Imagine that,” she snaps, circling around the magic shimmering in the air; radiating contempt.

Her brother arrives, then, and looks unhappily between them.

“What is going on?” he demands.

“General Lathim was just chatting with me about Glory’s fragility,” she says.

June turns, without another word, and heads back towards the sidelines.

“A word of advice, Lathim; just apologize. It is less painful than losing fingers, and you will not have to grow anything back,” June drawls; but then Elgar’nan arrives, and makes his own demands for clarification.

“Lathim challenged me to a duel,” she asserts.

“I did not! I only said that Glory was… frail,” the man insists.

Elgar’nan looks at her.

“Do not kill him,” he insists.

“Of course not, my lord. I did not kill him the first three times this happened, after all,” she points out.

Lathim looks at his right hand. Several of his fingers twitch.

But he is nothing if not stubborn about his refusal to retract ill-advised statements, she has learned. Truly, the  _best_  sort of military leader. He draws his own weapon just in time for her to batter through his defences, but as ever, he doesn’t last long in physical combat. She takes him down and shatters his kneecap, and then lets the healers in the room pull him off to go and repair the damage.

As ever, a few onlookers offer her congratulations on winning, and then everyone more or less returns to milling about.

She scans the room, and doesn’t quite realize what she’s looking for until her gaze lands on Pride. He’s staring at her, in return. Hardly surprising, all things considered; though when she locks eyes with him, he ducks his head quickly, and sloshes his drink down his front.

Poor Glory had deserved better than being Falon’Din’s trophy. She looks at all the gleaming, shimmering finery that Pride has been clad in, and her gut twists just a bit. Mythal is not Falon’Din. But she still does, in her own way, use her followers unfairly. Not to mention her children as well.

After a moment, she heads over to where Pride is standing, trying to look unobtrusive while his clothes magically clean themselves.

“I do not suppose Mythal’s people duel much,” she says.

He jumps, and nearly spills his drink again.

“Not… that I have seen, no,” he says, flushed and radiating nervousness, and just an edge of excitement; all tightly wound around him. “You were, um. You are very good with a sword. I do not think I have ever seen anyone fight like that before.”

“You have not seen many battlefields, then,” she surmises. “I have trained with groups from several our illustrious leaders. Though not all are interested in martial skills. Are you?”

She expects he will say no, all things considered.

“Very!” he exclaims. “I am very, very interested in y… all… all of… that.”

“Truly?” she asks, a little amused, despite everything. “You do not need to pretend, you know. I would not judge you harshly for being dismissive. I realize I may have set a bad precedent, but I do not actually go around picking fights. Much. Anymore.”

Pride laughs. There is the barest hint of a snort and a giggle to it; the sounds shoot straight through her, and settle warm against her scarred old heart.

“I would not feign an interest I did not have,” he promises.

“Well. If that is the case, and you wish to learn, you are welcome to join my morning training,” she tells him. The offer flies out, and part of her wonders what she is thinking, in extending it. But it is a dangerous world, and it is so easy to lose… everything. Everyone.

No matter what happens, she does not want to see him suffer through it again.

“I… I am?” he asks, a little wide-eyed.

“You are,” she assures him.

She is not certain she expects him to really turn up, though, until he does; dressed in yet more ridiculous finery passing for armour, with a serviceable blade at his hip, and a shimmering, pale green scarf pulled up to his chin. The air is a little cold. The wind is up, and it is just enough to bite at exposed cheeks and noses. In his case it has given him a rosy quality, and she finds it difficult not to stare.

He feels a bit like a dream. She wonders if she used to feel that way to him, in another life.

“We will have to get you some better armour,” she tells him.

He looks down at himself.

“What is wrong with my armour?” he wonders.

“That? That is made to look good,” she tells him. “And it does. But there are too many gaps in it to be suitable defence against someone who knows how to use a blade, which is what armour is meant to  _do._  The fabric is not meant to protect you, either. It is too light. Well enough for most council meetings, unless you care to make a lot of enemies. But for a battlefield? I would feel like I was sending you to your death in that.”

She swallows. The cold air feels bleak. Pride looks down at himself, considering her assessments.

“Oh,” he says.

“Do not worry. I know a very fine armourer. Give me your measurements, and I shall commission you something more suitable,” she offers.

He shifts from one foot to the other, and glances back at her.

“I can commission things from Mythal’s armourers. They are very skilled, too,” he says.

“It is no trouble. Permit me to offer you this, as a gift. It is so rare for me to find someone worth talking to at these meetings,” she requests.

After a moment’s more consideration, he nods in agreement.

“Thank you very much for your consideration, General,” he says.

She inclines her head.

“No trouble. Now, since we have to make do as we are, keep your magic ready. I would hate to injure you,” she says, and then bids him come and stand with her, and show her what forms he knows. 

Not many, as it turns out. With some prodding he reveals that he is only a few decades old. Mythal has been keeping him ensconced safely at her palace, until she deemed him ready to participate in military efforts. Most of his training has been in etiquette, politics, and tactics, with some time set aside for music and poetry. He is Dreaming-born; which, given his name, doesn’t surprise her. His physical fighting skills are better as a wolf, in fact, but that form is more limited, of course.

She shows him several moves. It’s easy to fall into the role of instructor. She’s taught plenty of fighters over the years. When he’s not speaking and she’s not looking directly at him, he can almost be just another student. But then she has to reach over to correct his stance, or his hold on his weapon, and she finds it difficult to look away from his face. Or he speaks, and suddenly she is arrested by him. Caught between time. Between old grief and tentative hope; fear and elation.

She finds she cannot help but be gentle with him. Her hands are very careful with his own. Her eyes trace over the shape of vallaslin on his face, and she finds herself worrying over those marks. Wishing them gone.

Her own face is covered with her brother’s, of course.

“You are a quick study,” she commends, when they’re finally finished for the morning. “But you over-think your moves. We shall have to train that out of you.”

“I will come back,” he agrees, and after a little more prompting, leaves her with the requested measurements.

It takes some doing to set aside enough time. But she steals some for herself in the evenings, and makes her way to one of the forges in her brother’s tower. The goods are simpler to acquire; no one bats an eyelash at her forging yet another set of armour. She has barely begun to work, though, when a familiar figure settles into a corner of the room.

“Papa,” she greets.

“This armour is not for you,” Haninan notes, staring over the sketches she has discarded. “Nor is it for June, I do not think. It has been a long time since he consented to wear one of your designs.”

“He prefers his clothes to move even when he does not, these days. Alas, I am not the master designer he needs,” she agrees.

“Do not tell me you have come to make your beloved father another suit,” Haninan says, pressing a hand to his chest. “I am far too humble in my means to repay you for it.”

“As if I would ask you to,” she says, focusing on her task. The design she had settled on is solid. She could do something prettier, perhaps, and still quite secure; but she is not confident that it would be  _as_  secure. She can almost hear her adoptive father putting this together as he looks at her final sketches, the gears in his mind turning.

“So. A new student? A protege?” he asks.

“Something like that,” she replies.

“Would he happen to have a name, or have those gone out of fashion?” Haninan wonders.

“His name is Pride,” she says; a little clipped. She cannot help but feel as if Haninan is apt to figure out everything she leaves unsaid. Probably because he is, and always has been.

Fortunately, though, he is also perceptive enough not to press. He leaves her to her work. She gets a fair amount done before she has to retire for the evening. Her dreams are troubled. Fire and death and screaming, and light that swallows her, and leaves her to fall, small and vulnerable and left at the feet of a dragon.

When she wakes, she feels more exhausted than she had when her head struck the pillow.

She gets up, though. Goes to the training field, and finds that Pride is already waiting for her. He is as eager a learner and as good a listener as he had been the day before, and he is wearing a different set of armour. It’s not precisely  _better_ , but there are fewer accessories to get in the way of his movements this time.

The day’s meetings are rife with disagreements, though. The Nameless have lost this war. That’s apparent to everyone. The question that remains is simply how  _thorough_ their defeat should be, and how much should be invested towards hastening it. These are always the sort of arguments where there are inevitably two people entrenched on completely opposite sides of the divide, and impossible to draw into a compromise.

Usually one of them is Falon’Din.

She  _really_  has to figure out how to kill him.

In the evening she goes back to the forge. The few apprentices who had been using it during the day dutifully clear out for her, though they linger a bit to talk, and ask after some of her brother’s projects. Only once they’ve gone does her father make another appearance; navigating his would-be ‘prison’ as expertly as anything.

“So this Pride is… somewhat young?” he guesses.

“If his life were to be transcripted, the ink on the first chapter would still be wet,” she confirms.

“I was younger than your mother, you know,” he muses.

“I do know, actually,” she says, but with fondness. 

“So. Does he like you? Has he been tripping all over himself to bring you gifts, and lay roses at your feet?” he asks, settling in to watch her work. “Tell me they are all different colours. Oh! Tell me he is a poor serving boy, who steals them from the upper city gardens. Does he serve your brother? No, there would have been talk by now of an embodied Pride spirit among the ranks. Who else could it be? Sylaise? Andruil?”

“Mythal,” she supplies. “And no, there have been no roses. There has been politics, and there have been fighting lessons.”

“And handmade gifts of armour,” Haninan adds. 

“I want him safe,” she concedes, staring at her progress.

“You want everyone safe, Puzzle. But I suppose you must want him  _doubly_  safe. I know what it means when you make someone armour,” he says.

She takes a moment, and then gets back to the task at hand.

Her father leaves her be, offering only quiet company, and very little further speculation.

It takes her the whole week of meetings to finish her task. When the armour is done, it is… acceptable, she supposes. She will replace at some point, with something she can devote more time to. This set will suffice until then. It is silvery, and simplistic by most standards, but she has put what decorations she can where she may; wolves and trailing vines, and leaves. These is a chance he will turn his nose up at it, of course. There is an even greater chance he will be polite about it, and yet never actually wear her offering.

Still. On the last morning she gives it to him. He takes it from her very carefully.

“My thanks to your armourer,” he says.

She nods in acknowledgement.

“I hope it suits. Most importantly, I hope it keeps you safe,” she says. “I will be leading my brother’s forces south, along with Falon’Din’s people. I believe I shall rest more easily on the march, if I know that such an insightful addition to the efforts along the coast is sufficiently protected from harm.”

“I do not know that I have earned such consideration. But, thank you for it. And for your time. You… um. You did not have to share it, with me,” Pride says, obviously a bit baffled at being singled out for her attention.

“It was my pleasure to,” she assures him.

It burns, then, she finds; to have to leave his company again. To watch him go with Mythal’s people, and turn her mind back to the war, and matters of the world at large. Her dreams remain tumultuous. Matters in the south go worse than she expected; part of the eluvian network goes down, thanks to the efforts of Nameless insurgents, and Falon’Din withdraws his forces too early, and the weather turns from dangerous to unassailable. She calls a retreat, but the withdrawal itself is a messy, deadly business, as they are forced to go by foot through the mountain pass. And of course, they have fewer supplies than they should, and what paths they find are treacherous and steep.

To make matters worse, they are still seeking a way through the mountains when a feral dragon, of all things, happens upon them. 

It is a clever beast. The pass they are in makes it nigh impossible for them to fight it more than a few at a time; it dogs their passage for days, swooping in unexpectedly, and making off with a few of them at a time. She does her best to drive it back, but it makes a habit of targeting the end of the forces that are opposite to her location. If she marches at the front, it will attack the rear; if she brings up the rear, it will swoop down on the front. She is not the only one capable of fending it off, but it’s a harrowing experience, nonetheless; especially as rations grow more scarce, and the cold wears them down.

Finally, the beast slips up, and comes at them on a chill grey morning from too low of an angle. Three of the archers land decent shots in its neck, and it smashes a wing into the mountain wall. They set themselves upon it, and she lands the killing blow; a swift but messy slash straight through the back of its skull and into its brain. They take the horns as proof, and mark the spot where the body fell; and their bloodied, battered, diminished group carries on with their trek.

The first village they reach sounds an alarm at their approach, and nearly takes them for raiders. But when they are recognized, they are ushered hurriedly inside the walls. She takes little respite before pressing through, to go and report their survival and, more important, acquire aid for those with lingering injuries.

When that’s done, she finds herself dragged back to her brother’s tower in Arlathan, as June shows some signs of the rarely-seen worrier in him.

“I thought you were dead,” he admits.

“How could I die? I promised I would help keep you from running Elvhenan into the ground. I can hardly do that if I am dead,” she replies; though, slumped into the couch in his vast and ridiculous office, she feels just barely alive.

Why is it always  _cold_  that she has to go marching through? Just once, for variety’s sake, let her get stuck in the desert.

“I should have known you would not leave me to be  _too_  badly outnumbered by Sylaise’s family,” June quips back.

“We should kill Falon’Din. Really just start evening things out,” she suggests.

“Mm. Yes. I can certainly see the appeal there,” June agrees. Which is nice. She likes when they can agree on things. Admittedly, this one thing is scraping the bottom of the barrel, but still. “Of course, it might also help if you were to, say, find someone to settle down with.”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“Let our father out of the Tower of Ego; that would help, too,” she counters.

June scowls.

“I am trying to be reasonable,” he says.

“How is my suddenly materializing a mate more reasonable than utilizing an actual person who exists?” she wonders, leaning back on the couch.

“There have been rumours flying among the servants that you are courting someone,” June says, in that tone of his that implies that he’s slightly offended about this, for some reason. Probably because she didn’t say anything to him about it. Or confide in Sylaise, which he considers nearly as acceptable.

Rumours, though? Where would…

_Dammit, Papa._

He has been gossiping with the workers again.

“There are also rumours among the servants that Dirthamen is a fake alter-ego that you invented, and that Sylaise and Mythal are the same person wearing different dresses,” she says. “In which case, you are married to your own adoptive mother. Gross, June. Very gross.”

The look June gives her is impressively unimpressed.

“So you are not courting someone, then?” he asks.

“Not to my knowledge, no,” she replies.

He doesn’t, she decides, need to look so disappointed about that.  _Yes,_  strategically, it would be advantageous for them to have more people in positions of potential power who were not under Mythal’s direct influence. But considering that the obvious candidate for that is Haninan, and June is still being stubborn on that front, she hardly sees why  _she_  should fall upon the sword of commitment. Besides which, the only person she would even passingly consider pursuing in that regard is probably too young to even think about such things, and also, actually, under Mythal’s direct influence.

“Sorry to dash your dreams of improved political flexibility,” she says.

June waves a hand dismissively.

“It is not entirely that,” he says, and at least he has the decency not to insult her intelligence by pretending it’s not  _at all_  about that. Sylaise tries that sometimes. It’s not a ship that sails well with her, all things considered. “I would actually care to see you happy, you know. And perhaps a bit more cautious with your safety. Which I can only hope a committed relationship would help with.”

She blinks over at him.

“Really? You think I would settle down with someone sedate and normal and stop flinging myself head-first into danger?” she asks, a little wonderingly.

June reconsiders.

“Perhaps it is wiser to consider that you might find someone adept at pulling you out of the aftermath,” he suggests.

“I am pretty damn good at surviving aftermaths as it stands,” she replies. If there is some bitterness to her tone… well. It’s been coming up lately.

Her brother throws his hands up in the air.

“Fine! Someone else to mourn at your inevitable funeral!” he snaps. “Why do I even bother trying?”

“I have no idea. It is not as if you would do better with someone who just quietly minded their own business and stayed out of things for a sister,” she feels compelled to point out.

“I think I would suffer fewer headaches,” June suggests. “And have to plan and then cancel fewer mourning rituals.”

“Right. Yes. Because you absolutely plan these things. Not your wife. No,” she mutters, staring up at the bizarre framework of his ceiling. But not staring too closely. That can be a little nauseating, in fact.

“Sylaise and I are a  _team,”_  June protests.

“Mmhmm. And Sylaise’s job on this team is planning events, and cancelling them, so if anyone should be complaining at me for almost dying, it is her. But all she did was hug me. And tell me I looked terrible, but in fairness, I did.”

“You still do, to a degree,” June informs her.

She levels him with a look.

“I look  _very damn good_  for someone who almost died in a blizzard full of feral dragons,” she tells him.

“One dragon. Singular,” he insists, moodily.

“Come here so I can hit you,” she demands.

He snorts at her, and keeps his distance.

Terrible brother, really. But then again, what does she expect from a somewhat despotic would-be godking?

“Elvhenan is such a mess,” she mutters.

“I wish you would stop saying that all the time,” June protests. “Or at least say it where other people cannot hear you. It is uncomfortably close to treachery. And it sets a bad example for the masses.”

“It is constructive criticism,” she counters. “That is vital. Remember the wind castle?”

June groans.

“Why do you always bring up the damned wind castle?” he demands, slumping back in his own seat and raising his hands to the air, as if asking the merciless heavens what he has done to deserve this constant harassment. The melodramatic weirdo.

“Because somehow you and Sylaise got all the way to the point where you were ready to  _kill spirits_  to fuel the creation of a  _house made of air_  before I, me, the person who is neither an architect nor a visionary, had to step in and point out to the  _both of you_ that it was a stupid idea.”

“I maintain that the idea had its merits,” June insists.

“It had no merits. None. We tried to find some, remember? There were literally no merits. It was all downsides,” she counters.

“There were some merits,” her brother maintains.

“Name them,” she demands.

“I could name several just off the top of my head, but you would not appreciate them, considering that you are - as you said - neither an architect nor a visionary,” June tells her.

She throws a cushion at him.

He dodges. Most likely he saw it coming, in fact. It does smack satisfyingly against the wall behind him, though. And he seems mostly amused, and pleased enough at having successfully evaded her attack that he isn’t still sore about her persistent lack of new connections.

He does end up insisting that she convalesce at the palace for a while; despite the fact that, once she has been healed, there isn’t much reason to bother. She could go join their limited forces elsewhere. But June is mostly set upon letting the remaining Nameless withdraw, and she’s more or less inclined to agree. They’ve secured their territory. Hounding their enemy past this point crosses a line, in her books.

At least it gives her some time to work on a few projects.

And she gets plenty of missives, of course. Certain regions in June’s territory fall under her supervision, and many of his followers either answer to her or prefer to go through her to get results; particularly if their requests clash with some project or another that her brother has underway. She blazes through most of them these days, accustomed to what to expect, and what might be out-of-the-ordinary.

One of the letters catches her eye, if only because it has clearly been sealed and bound in an atypical fashion. Not from June’s people, she doesn’t think. Or Sylaise’s. The paper is scented, and smells very faintly of fresh roses as she unfurls it.

 _To General Lavellan, of the Highest Ranks of Most Gracious and Clever June,_  it begins. The script is vaguely familiar, and grabs her attention even before she quite realizes why.  _You may not recall me. We met during the council meetings in Arlathan, which preceded your brave and perilous march southwards, to drive remaining enemy forces away from the outlying villages and settlements there. When reports came in of the difficulties you faced, I feared the worst. But having since learned of your survival, I felt compelled to write you this letter commending your actions, and expressing my own relief. I am pleased by the prospect that we may yet cross paths again in the future, and grateful for your continued well-being. The armour you provided me with has served me well, and so has your advice. It would grieve me to think that I would not have the chance to thank you again in person._

_With great relief and earnest regard,_

_Commander Pride, of the Ranks of Benevolent and Wise Mythal._

She stares at the letter. Turns it over in her hands. Reads it, and then reads it again. It’s… somewhat uncommon for such brief acquaintances to send one another letters like this, as it goes. But then, she reminds herself, Pride is young. And perhaps he really did just like that armour a whole lot. People certainly do develop a swift appreciation for anything which can avail them on a battlefield, in her experience. And the parchment is probably scented because… well. Mythal’s people are nearly as bad as Sylaise’s when it comes to such matters of aesthetics.

With a wistful internal sigh, she tucks it away into one of the drawers of her desk.

Then she thinks about penning a reply.

 _Dear…_  no. Too informal; it would not quite match the tone of the one he’d sent, and might raise a few eyebrows if someone else were to read it.

 _To Commander Pride, of the Ranks of Mythal,_  she decides, and pulls a fresh sheet of parchment out to begin carefully penning it down.  _How could I fail to recall you? You were the only person at those meetings who agreed with me on the matter of troop supplies, and you availed yourself quite well in what little training we managed to accomplish. I, too, must admit some relief at your continued well-being. I am glad the armour has proven useful. When we meet again, I may have something less hastily made to offer you. It is my hope that this occasion will come sooner rather than later._

_Sincerely,_

_General Lavellan, of the Ranks of June_.

There. That should suffice, she thinks. With a decisive internal nod, she sends it off to be delivered, and then turns back to the rest of the missives she has left to go through. Ever and always, it seems, paperwork is a persistent burden of leadership.

She expects that to be the end of the matter with regards to the letter. A simple - and touching - expression of relief over her continued survival; an equally simple acknowledgement of it. So she is surprised when, a few weeks later, she receives another letter; written on the same sort of parchment, in the same distinctive hand.

 _To General Lavellan, of the Highest Ranks of Clever June,_  it begins. She appreciates the slight decrease of ceremony.  _I must thank you for your kind response to my letter. I am certain you are wondering why I would waste your valuable time with another, and so I must beg your continued consideration, and prevail upon your good nature as I ask for some advice. I have been tasked with commanding a small force along the north-eastern coastline…_

The letter goes on to describe the tactical situation, without giving away too much vital information, and request her thoughts on the matter. She’s not really sure why he wants to consult her, of all people, on this; surely there must be experienced generals closer to the action with more familiarity with Mythal’s people he could go to for information or advice. But then again, maybe he just… really wants an outside perspective. Perhaps he  _is_ consulting with such people. It would be like him, she thinks, to try and talk to as many willing parties as he possibly could.

She considers the matter, and pens her response with careful thoughts and suggestions, before sending it off.

A week later, she is only slightly less surprised to get another reply.

 _To General Lavellan, of the Highest Ranks of Clever June,_  

_I thank you greatly for your considered and experienced advice. It has availed me well; I have received commendations from Mythal, and though I dare not divulge as many details as I previously had, I can say with authority that matters are proceeding well. Though I must admit, I find myself eager to see them draw to a close. I understand the necessity of these campaigns. But killing is unpleasant business. My dreams have changed. I have seen spirits twist and warp, and have learned more of the shape of pain. But I digress; I wished primarily to express my gratitude, and how much I look forward to the possibility of speaking to you in person again._

_With deepest thanks and regard,_

_Commander Pride, of the Ranks of Wise Mythal._

She frowns at the letter, and considers it for a long moment. Then she gets up and goes and tracks her brother down. But no matter how she attempts to convince him, he refuses to permit her to take a force to the coast.

“The campaigns there are going well. They will be over within a month, and we have had no intelligence to suggest otherwise,” he says. “There is no good reason to send a force there.”

“Fine. Then I shall go by myself,” she tells him.

“ _Why?”_  he demands.

“Because! That is where the fighting is, and I should be where the fighting is! To… make certain things go well,” she argues.

June doesn’t look particularly convinced.

“And you accuse  _me_  of egotism,” he observes, dryly. “I am fairly certain the war will not collapse in the final minute just because you were not present to wave swords at the enemy. You are  _resting_ , little sister.”

“How much rest do you imagine I need?” she demands.

“Well, if you are bored…”

Somehow, rather than ending in her marching east, this conversation ends in her getting double her usual workload. Fucking June. She fumes, considers just up and leaving anyway, reassess, and finally just sinks down at her desk and settles for writing another letter instead.

_To Commander Pride, of the Ranks of Mythal,_

_War is a terrible burden, and I am grieved that you must endure it. I wish I could do more to ease it for you. People should not be subjected to the torments of violence, but unfortunately, that is the world we live in. For the dreams, I can only advise that you keep any friends you may have close, and seek comfort in them. I, too, look forward to the end of this campaign. I am certain you will have many interesting observations and thoughts to discuss, and I hope there will be ample opportunity for us to speak. In the meantime, your letters are a most welcome reprieve from the tedium of paperwork._

_Sincerely,_

_Your friend, General Lavellan._

There, she decides. It’s not much, but at least it’s something. 

A few days after she sends it out, she’s drifting through dreams when she abruptly finds herself in the company of a white wolf; one which is staring moodily out over the expanse of a torn and ravaged battlefield.

She’s not entirely certain if he’s, well,  _himself_ , or just a stray spirit that has happened to pluck the image of a wolf from the depths of her mind. Not until he looks at her, and then does a prompt double-take.

“General!” he exclaims. “I… you… you are a Dreamer mage? I mean, of course you are! What a pleasant surprise. I did not realize you were seeking me out.” The wolf glances hastily at himself, and then again at the battlefield; and where his mood had certainly been melancholy before, now he seems almost relieved at the setting. She supposes he is glad that no one happened upon him in the midst of a more embarrassing dream; speaking at a council meeting whilst naked, perhaps.

“Forgive me,” she says. “I must confess, this is unintentional. My talents for dreaming tend to be sporadic and unpredictable.”

The wolf tilts his head, curious.

“You found me… by accident?” he correctly surmises.

She nods.

“Sometimes if I think of someone or something too much, I send myself tumbling strangely through the Dreaming,” she admits. “After thousands of years, you would think I would be better at it. In my defence, it has been a long time since this last happened.” And in her defence, too, her preoccupation with him tends to throw her back to days when the world worked very differently.

Pride shifts about, pawing at the ground a little.

“I am sorry to intrude,” she offers.

“No! It is no intrusion, not at all!” Pride insists. “I can find us somewhere more comfortable to speak. I am quite skilled with dreams, myself.”

So saying, the world around them shimmers and reshapes itself. In an instant they have gone from a ravaged battlefield to an idyllic beach, with turquoise waves lapping gently against warm sands, dotted with pristine white sea shells and dried-out starfish. Tiny tide pools hold small, silvery fish; fluffy clouds drift past the shifting sky overhead. A few comfortable-looking benches wait for wanderers to occupy them.

“Very lovely,” she compliments.

“Thank you!” Pride replies, puffing up a bit. “This is how I envisioned a location that I read about in a book.”

The wolf makes his way down the beach, then. She follows alongside him, and ends up listening to the description of the aforementioned book - and explanations of his opinion on the concept of fiction, which he apparently has given a great deal of thought - as the waves rock back and forth. It’s pleasant. Surprisingly peaceful, even, all things considered. After a half hour or so of talking about books, Pride attempts to coax her into talking about her expedition south.

She does, easily enough. He’s most interested in how they survived their encounter with the feral dragon, so she describes that as best she can; up to and including the long, dark nights they spent worrying that every draft which flickered through their camp fires had been kicked up by the sweeping current of wings, and that the beast would be upon them again.

As she speaks, the beach grows a little colder. The waters get stormier, and a low wind kicks up. The benches are replaced with grey mountain rock, and broken, overgrown pillars. She’s not sure if it’s her doing or his or both of theirs. But after a while, she stops, and settles a hand on the fur of his back.

“My apologies. It seems I have brought down the mood,” she says. 

“No. I wish to hear of the things you have endured,” Pride insists. “It is important to recount terrible things as well as pleasant ones. War is costly. Before, I was not certain; but now I am. I do not think we should pursue the Nameless any further. Let them withdraw and have their corner of the world. It is far better than any of the alternatives.”

“I agree,” she says.

He nods.

“I have been reading about you. I mean, I have read some of the accounts of battles you fought in,” he tells her, ducking his head a bit. “You are very good at these matters, even if you do not care for them.”

“It is best not to care for them,” she says. “I like fighting, sometimes. I like the exhilaration of a challenge; the simplicity of knowing that you must act, physically, to defend yourself. But there are better ways. And it is not worth the price of it, in the end. Though ‘peacefully’ killing off people in sacrifices and suchlike is no better. It is still violence and loss and destruction, no matter what comforting terms the perpetrators care to redefine it with.”

That’s… heavier than she meant to go with him.

He nods, though, considering the matter carefully.

“You do not approve of sacrifices,” he notes. Well, that’s a fairly established part of her reputation. “Is that why you have perfected your martial skills, despite disapproval of battle? Sacrifices are often used to fuel magic. Do you wish to see the world depend upon spellcraft less, and lead by example?”

She looks over at him, blinking a bit.

“That is… a far more elegant explanation than the truth,” she admits. “I was just never as comfortable with magic as with other tools.”

“I can scarcely imagine that,” Pride admits.

“It is often a difficult concept for Dreaming-born,” she allows, turning to watch the skies as they storm overhead.

“Yes, though, I meant more that I can scarcely imagine you as unskilled at magic. You seem like you would be good at most anything requiring intelligence and focus,” he reasons.

She laughs.

“Have I secretly revealed myself as less intelligent and focused than you had hoped?” she wonders.

The wolf whips his head around and stares at her, aghast.

“No!” he blurts. “No, I certainly did not mean it that way! Have I given offence? Forgive me, if I so; it was wholly unintended.”

He seems so alarmed that she can’t help but chuckle a bit. Who knew he would be so jumpy?

“Relax,” she says. “You have not offended me in the least.”

Pride slumps, just a bit.

“Good,” he decides.

When the dream ends, she wakes to a more pleasant mood than any she’s been in for some time. Her colleagues are happy to see it; and happier still to let her commandeer another forge for yet another project. She works steadily, and lets Haninan pour over her new sketches.

He smiles a bit while he does.

“Does your brother know you are using such materials for a courtship gift?” he wonders.

“It is not a courtship gift,” she declares. “And no. I am doing this at my own discretion.”

“I want to meet this young man, whom my youngest child makes such precious things for,” Haninan declares.

“Then it is a shame you are in prison,” she says. 

“You could always bring him here.”

She pauses in her work to give him a sidelong look.

“Right. Just let me bring him to the ever-shifting maze tower full of traps and fire so my outlaw father can spring out of the walls and probably interrogate him,” she says, before turning back to the task at hand.

Haninan pantomimes being wounded.

“Where do you get such opinions on my character? I did not interrogate Sylaise,” he points out.

“You are terrified of Sylaise,” she counters. “You would not be terrified of Pride.”

“Is he sweet, then?” Haninan wonders, sitting up on a nearby counter. “I always did picture you with someone sweet. Gentle. Perhaps a little scholarly and dashing, like the old bards used to be. The kind who would flit between clans, searching for stories, and yearning for adventures but never quite meant to take them on alone.”

Her hand stills, hovering over her project a moment, before she keeps moving.

“He is sweet,” she confirms.

“Scholarly?” Haninan prods.

“Yes.”

“Dashing?”

She thinks on that one, pausing before another automatic confirmation can spill out of her.  _Is_  he dashing? Not yet, she supposes. She can’t imagine him just up and sweeping her off her feet; though, it certainly doesn’t hurt to try.

“Not quite yet,” she decides. 

“Well. You can be the dashing one, if need be,” her father decides.

“He is very charming, though,” she says. It may be more that she is charmed by him than any inherent knack of his for it; but that doesn’t really matter. “I have to get to know him better.” Thousand year old memories of a man he had once become are tricky, and hardly do anyone justice, when it comes down to it.

Haninan smiles at her, fondly.

“I hope he proves as worthwhile as you already think he is,” he tells her.

“We are not courting,” she reminds him. It would hardly be right of her to pursue such a thing, as it stands. There is the memory of another to consider, and there is their difference in station, age, experience… she’s not entirely certain that Pride realizes he can say ‘no’ to her yet.

Haninan just sighs.

The letters continue, and so, she finds, do the dreams. It’s pleasant to talk with him. To walk with him. To remember things, but also to discover a new connection to someone. It’s been a while since she has reached out so thoroughly to anyone new and unfamiliar.

By the time Pride has returned from the battlefield, she has built him a new set of armour, and a new weapon besides. It’s some fair work, if she does say so herself. Several of the apprentices enthuse over it, but they’re trained to appeal to June’s egotism, so she takes their praise with a grain of salt. There  _is_  a lot of speculation over who it’s meant for, though. That’s slightly concerning. One morning she wakes to find her brother pouring over her completed projects; a speculative look on his face.

“Who?” he asks, pointing to the set.

She rolls her eyes.

“Does it matter? You knew I was bored,” she says. “I made armour; I have no idea what the fuss is about.”

“Because if you were bored and making something for the sake of it, you would make it for yourself,” he says. “This is not my size, this is not  _that man’s_  size, and it would never fit you or Sylaise.”

“Perhaps I simply wanted to do something different,” she suggests.

June raises an eyebrow at her.

“Then there is no intended recipient?” he prods.

“…I did not say that,” she is forced to concede.

He folds his arms.

Oh,  _shit._  She’s never going to get him off the subject now.

“Who?” he demands.

She throws her arms into the air.

“It is for one of Mythal’s commanders. The young one, who made the good suggestions at the last meeting,” she admits.

“One of  _Mythal’s_   _commanders?!”_  June demands, aghast. “Not even a general? You could gift this armour to Elgar’nan and he would not turn his nose up at it! This took you months!”

She rolls her eyes.

“For pity’s sake, June, why would I gift it to Elgar’nan? He has armourers of his own! And even you no longer wear the armour I make. It is not  _dazzling_  enough, as I recall. Who better to gift it to than the lower-ranking military leaders among our allies? We win favour, they get armour they can actually use and appreciate, and I get to see my efforts be  _worn_  instead of placed onto some mannequin and never mentioned again; everyone wins!” she declares.

“If you made me armour like this, I would wear it,” June tells her, turning back towards the set. “This is beautiful. It is the finest suit you have ever made, I think.”

“It is passable,” she allows. Really, she can already think of a dozen ways to make it more effective. She’s been working on plans for a third project ever since she finished.

“Perhaps you have finally hit your creative stride,” June suggests. He looks a little uneasy at the prospect.

“Oh, rapture. I have at last found a way to combine functionality and aesthetic so as to not offend your delicate sensibilities. My life’s goals are truly complete now,” she drawls.

That kills his unease, at least. He gives her a withering look.

“Perhaps it is a fluke,” he mutters.

“If you want me to make you something, brother, just ask. After all, I forge every suit of armour with  _love_ ,” she says, mockingly earnest. “And I do not mean that literally; unlike your current armourer, who keeps picking on the little spirits. I hate him, by the way. I will happily replace him if you are finally sick of wearing his ugly, murderous shit.”

“Two,” June says. “He has killed a grand total of  _two_  spirits, neither of them substantial, and both for the sake of truly astounding works of art.”

“Well, how astounding can they be when you are standing here practically salivating over my hobby project?” she wonders.

At that, her brother does look a bit stymied.

“…I will think on it,” he finally concedes.

When he at last stalks off, she lets out a breath, and promptly locks the entirety of her gift into a suitable chest. Then she takes said chest to her room, where it can hopefully inspire no more rumours and speculation and awkward questions.

In the end, though, it is still quite some time before she sees Pride again. Not until there is another council meeting, in fact. And then she spends several weeks helping to prepare for it, and manages to not be present for the arrival of Mythal’s contingent. Mythal chooses different attendants for the first few meetings as well, so in the end, it is not until three days after the start of the council that they finally cross paths again; she ends up going straight to Mythal’s estate in the early morning, gift in tow, and having to make conversation with two other generals over breakfast before she can finally pin Pride down in one of the gardens.

And then she wonders if this is weird.

She is considering turning around and leaving again when the white wolf spots her, and a burst of excitement lights up the air around him, before he wrestles it down again.

“General!” he calls, loping over. “I am so pleased to see you again! I had hoped we might have a chance, but I dared not presume upon your time. What brings you to the manor?”

“I came to see you,” she admits. “I hope it is not an imposition.”

Pride stares at her silently for a moment.

“…Commander?” she asks, a little uncertainly. “If it  _is_  an imposition…”

“No!” he exclaims, all in a rush. “No, not at all! Forgive me. I was simply taken aback; I know you are a good sort and have humoured me, but I was not expecting you to pay me any special visits. But I am thrilled that you have!”

There is a brief shifting of the air, and a flash of light, and the wolf turns abruptly into an elf. A slightly red-faced, embarrassed-looking elf, dressed in flowing green and bronze, with crystal beads in his hair and a slight hesitance to his gaze.

“I have not been humouring you, Pride. I quite enjoy your company,” she says, hoping against hope that he will realize she’s not liable to snap and bite his head off for any perceived transgressions. “In fact, I have brought you something.”

“You brought me something?” he asks, wonderingly.

With a nod, she bids him follow her, and takes him to the waiting room where some of Mythal’s servants had placed the chest.

“It is not much,” she says. “But it is more acceptable than what I was able to give you last time. I hope it suits you.”

Pride glances at her, and then opens the chest. A flare of shock ripples over him. He stares at the contents for a moment, before carefully lifting up a few pieces, and turning them over in his hands. When he finds the sword, he turns that over, too; examining the sheath, before carefully drawing it. The blade is prismatic. Flashy, but she made certain it was still more than serviceable, too. It’s fine enough to like pretty things, she supposes. Just so long as they don’t interfere with functionality too much.

She starts to worry, though, as time ticks past and Pride remains silent.

“Do you dislike it?” she wonders.

When he glances at her, though, he looks more bewildered than anything.

“You… you had your armourer make this for  _me?”_  he asks. “I do not know much about this craft, but I know these materials are costly.”

She lets out a breath.

“And what better use could they be put to than protecting someone’s hide? If you do not like it, I can change it. Or get you something else.”

Pride shakes his head.

“It is… this is armour fit for elves of the highest station,” he says.

“If your mind is so taken with matters of station, I will point out that socially, yours is equivalent to my own,” she tells him. She shifts a bit from one foot to another, and sighs again. “Please. It is not meant to hold any great meaning. It is armour; and you have served well in this war. Take it?”

After a moment, his hand smooths over the scabbard of the sword, and he gently places it back in the chest.

“I would be honoured, General. Thank you. And please forward my sincerest compliments to your armourer. The last set you gave me served quite well,” he says.

“If it spared you injury, I am glad,” she says.

Pride straightens from the chest, and treats her to a somewhat more relaxed smile.

“Are you free? I had planned to spend some of the morning in the city, and I would be pleased for your company,” he says.

She feels a pang of remorse, as she realizes she’s going to have to turn down his offer.

“Sadly, I have meetings to attend,” she admits. “Though I can say I would honestly prefer a tour of the city with you to spending several hours locked in circular debates.”

He accepts this gracefully, though he does ask to walk her back to the tower. They chat along the way, nearly as easily as they do in dreams; though in those, he is typically in his wolf form. She’s beginning to see why. He’s definitely still somewhat awkward and hesitant as an elf.

Not that she minds; it’s fairly endearing, in fact.

Mythal finally begins bringing him to meetings again the next day, too, and once more she finds herself spending a great deal of time addressing his comments. Though these meetings are less about strategy and more about settling lingering disputes and agreements between territories, so she ends up correcting him or refuting him as often as not. The lines between evanuris can be prickly, and are less susceptible to things like ‘logic’ and ‘critical thinking skills’.

Not that he seems to mind. Though a few others do.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Lavellan, if you are going to coach Mythal’s pet through politics, do it on your own time,” one of Sylaise’s negotiators, Felasena, interjects.

“Well, I would, but you see I understand his confusion, because nothing you have suggested so far has seemed terribly reasonable or made much sense, Felasena,” she counters. “I feel it is my duty to explain to him why logic has died an ignominious death upon the threshold of these chambers.”

“Mind your tongue, General. The great leaders of Elvhenan are assembled here,” Elgar’nan himself sees fit to inform her.

She raises an eyebrow, but otherwise obliges him, and goes silent for the moment.

“My sister has a point. We are not making much headway at the moment,” June interjects, to her surprise. “I vote we break, and reconvene this evening. Consider what has been discussed and perhaps rework some of our suggestions into something more appropriate.” He shoots a pointed glance towards Falon’Din’s group, then, and rightly so in her opinion.

He keeps bringing up that damned village.

_Again._

There are some grumbled agreements, which eventually manifest into a small debate; but most of the evanuris side with June, and so a break is called. The assembled elves exit into more comfortable chambers. Most of the evanuris take the opportunity to withdraw with their higher ranking attendants to review matters. The rest of them are left to mingle; June doesn’t seem to want to reassess anything himself, so she’s left to that crowd.

She takes the opportunity to make her way over to Pride.

“I apologize,” he says, immediately. “I did not mean to inconvenience you during the meeting.”

She waves a hand dismissively.

“You did not. You are being practical. Too many people in that room forget what practicality looks like,” she assures him. “Myself included, from time to time.”

“That is a very kind way of saying that I am unversed in many of the political nuances at play,” Pride notes, inclining his head slightly.

“I like to think I am at least still practical enough to say what I mean, most of the time. Especially in friendly conversation,” she replies.

Pride looks like he’s about to respond. But then he stills. His eyes widen, slightly, and he ducks his head at someone behind her. She turns, and is a little surprised to see that June is heading towards them. Her brother is a fitting image of an elf of his station at the moment; clad in gleaming bronze, with matching eyeshadow shimmering from his eyelids, and a complex headpiece that seems to flow through his hair like liquid metal.

Still. That’s no reason to go all deferential, she thinks.

“June,” she acknowledges.

“Sister,” he returns, with a nod. Then he looks at Pride. “So. This is the young commander of Mythal’s, I am guessing? The one you made that armour for.”

Pride’s gaze snaps over to her. The air flares briefly with surprise, though he does a good job of reeling it in. It lingers in his expression, though, written in the slackened line of his mouth, and the rapid flutter of his eyelids.

June raises an eyebrow.

“This is Pride,” she says, swiftly. “Pride, this is my brother, though of course you probably recognize him. Was there something you needed me for, June?”

“No,” June replies. “I only wished to make the acquaintance of this Pride you apparently think so highly of. You spent most of the meeting conversing with him, after all. I had wondered what you found so interesting about him.”

“Then obviously you were not listening to the content of our discussions. I should think some of his more interesting qualities would be evident in them,” she says.

“Alas, my mind is filled with many wonders, and my attention has a bad habit of chasing projects at inopportune moments,” June says.

“I am honoured that you would spare some attention for me, then,” Pride says, smoothly, and ducks into a respectful bow.

“I endeavour to make time for my sister’s interests, where possible. And she has certainly shown an uncommon degree of interest in you,” June replies, pausing to take up a glass of wine from a nearby refreshments table. He has that look in his eye, as he regards Pride, now. It’s the same way he looks at blueprints, or pieces of land that present particular construction challenges.

For his own part, Pride is embarrassed, she thinks. His cheeks are pink; though he doesn’t let it get away from him. And he keeps his head up; though the glance he darts towards her is uncertain. Unnerved, maybe? Wondering what he’s done to earn her interest? She wonders if it seems unduly strange, despite her sincerity. Or suspicious.

“It is rare enough to meet someone new and interesting,” she says. “You only think it is uncommon because you like people less than you like buildings.”

“You make it sound as though I dislike people, whereas I prefer to think of it as possessing a particularly potent love of architecture,” June replies.

“I would say anyone who is willing to sacrifice lives _for_ buildings must, by necessity, have a certain disregard for them,” she returns. Perhaps not the most diplomatic of moves, to bring up this argument here and now, in mixed company. But it definitely distracts June, as he narrows his eyes at her and squares up his shoulders; and then it’s back over well-tread arguments again. How many sacrifices is too many sacrifices, how many risks are worth the potential loss of life, where June’s ‘vision’ should give way to the wellbeing of June’s people, and where Lavellan is unreasonable and over-idealistic and holding back the progress of civilization, and so on and so forth.

Pride watches it all with growing fascination.

“You are, as ever, so perfectly correct when you say you have no vision,” June snaps at her.

“Wind castle,” she says.

He gestures, sharply, which doesn’t surprise her. June is prone to waving his hands through the air like a branch caught in a breeze whenever he’s struggling to find the words to express his sentiments. Back when he was courting Sylaise he used to do a positive version of it, where she would catch him, sometimes, just waving his hands in front of himself as if he was conducting an invisible orchestra.

What does surprise her is when Pride moves towards her, as if to grab her arm and pull her further away from her brother.

As if he has mistaken the gesture for an intended blow.

His hand stops just shy of her elbow.

June blinks, as if suddenly recalling that they have an audience.

Pride’s cheeks darken further, and he withdraws his hand to his side.

“My apologies,” he says. “Perhaps I should go, and allow you to continue your discussion.”

“It is a long-standing argument,” June interjects, before she can reply. “Though I do wonder, which side do you think has the most merit?”

She gives her brother a dark look. That’s putting Pride on the spot; he can hardly disagree with an evanuris, but if he takes her brother’s side, he risks alienating her; and whatever else might be in play, she’s well aware that she still has considerable rank and station, and a wealth of connections that someone Pride’s age wouldn’t have had a chance to build. Neither of them can do much harm to him in terms of the physical, given that he has Mythal’s protection – and hers, though he little knows that. But both she and June could make a great many of his future dealings and prospects much more difficult, just the same.

Pride folds his hands behind his back.

“Vision is vital to the progress of society. But society serves no greater purpose than to protect, sustain, and further the dreams of the people. It is at the discretion of our leaders that some visions should see the sacrifice of the people to reach fulfilment; presumably for the betterment of far more people, moving on into the future. And it is also at the discretion of our leaders to listen to the counsel of those with differing perspectives, as wisdom takes on many different forms. I think it is to your credit that you welcome discourse and disagreement, my lord. And I think it is to your sister’s credit that she is willing to challenge you for what she believes in. I myself am yet unversed in many of the matters you have discussed; but I would imagine there is great merit to each of your opinions, and whose should hold the most weight varies depending upon circumstance.”

June blinks.

She stares at Pride, as Pride politely awaits a response.

“…Alright then,” her brother decides. “Very diplomatic of you, Commander.”

“It is General now, in fact,” Pride says. “I was recently promoted.”

“I would venture that you are wasted on military work. Mythal might see you better situated as a negotiator, or even ambassador,” her brother suggests.

Pride smiles, politely.

“Provided the peace we have won holds, I see no reason why my duties cannot include more variety. There should be little call for battlefields in the future. At the moment, I would say my rank is more formality than anything; though I do not intend to allow my skills to grow lax.”

“And I suppose Mythal intends to focus on your education, for the time being. How old are you?” June asks.

Pride glances at her, and then squares his shoulders.

“I have had a body only for a short while. Not quite a hundred years,” he says.

“And before that?” her brother wonders.

“…Two hundred,” Pride admits.

June laughs.

“So young! It is a wonder that you have achieved so much, in such little time,” he says. Snidely.

“It is remarkable how little time some things can take,” she says. “If I recall correctly, the first time I beat you in a fight, I was twenty-eight, and you were a little over three hundred yourself.”

“I let you win,” June says, bristling a bit.

“You absolutely did not,” she counters.

“Of course I did. What kind of older brother would sincerely fight his tiny little sister?”

“You. You are that kind of older brother. When I was trying to teach Elgar’nan how to play Wicked Grace you kept listening in on his questions and using them to beat him. In a demonstration game. You hate losing,” she informs him, unrepentantly. “You would never, ever _let_ someone beat you.” Her mind flashes immediately back to that one memorable occasion when he and Sylaise had apparently taken relationship advice from Ghilan’nain and Andruil, and had decided to play some sort of sexy ‘hunt your partner through the forest’ game. But June had adamantly refused to let Sylaise catch him, and in the end her sister-in-law had contacted her in sincere concern.

June had gotten lost, and spent _four days_ out in the wilderness, with no supplies. By the time she found him he was stressed and near enough to some kind of panic that it he’d only had the energy to be glad to see her.

She tries to mentally remind him of this scenario via her eyes as she looks at him now.

Judging from the slight twitch he makes, it’s just possible that it works.

“You exaggerate,” he nevertheless insists. “And I have more important things to do than stand here and listen to you unfairly malign me.”

So saying, he nods politely to Pride, and then stalks off.

There is a moment of slightly awkward silence in his wake.

Pride’s shoulders relax, just a bit, and he moves his hands from his back to his front. He fidgets with the edges of his sleeves.

“You, ah. You made that armour? Yourself? You said your armourer did it,” he notes, quietly.

She glances at him.

Her heart clenches, just a bit. It is unfair, she thinks. He is so… compelling. One would think, after so long, and with so many differences, she’d find less enchantment in him. But she doesn’t. She maybe even finds more, as the familiar-but-different features of his face drag her back to another lifetime; one that, in many ways, felt just as long as this one. And in many ways, of course, never could.

It’s been thousands of years.

_Thousands._

“I am my own armourer,” she admits. “But please do not… I do not wish for it to seem strange.”

Pride considers this for a moment.

“I feel as though there is some etiquette I should observe, to repay you for such a thing,” he admits. “Some means of reciprocation. But I fear I could not make you anything comparable to what you have given me. Any gift I offered would seem more like an insult, I fear.”

“Never,” she assures him, swiftly. “Any gift you gave me – especially any you made with your own hands – could never seem like an insult, or disappointment. But I do not mean to intimidate you into producing luxuries you cannot. If you wish to repay me for the armour, then use it when you need to.”

Pride regards her carefully. He looks just a touch confused, she thinks; but he’s surprisingly hard to get a read on, at the moment.

Then he smiles.

“As you wish,” he says.

Something in her seems to settle, just a bit.

A long and low ache, so persistent that she had grown accustomed to it; that she had almost forgot it existed, at last sighs, and loosens just a tiny bit.


	4. Glory

The first time Lavellan meets Glory, it is a spirit.

She is small, still. The clan has been moving. Drifting through the air in aravels that travel the wind, with colourful banners marking their passage, as Ireth forges their path. She’s always kept very secure during these times, in an ‘aravel’ that is far bigger and airier than anything her own clan would have been able to use. Windows overlook the clouds and mountain peaks and the changing landscape.

Haninan usually sits with her and tells her stories for such trips. But today he is with the scouts, and so she has June, instead. Her ‘brother’ is reading. He had handed her a book of elvhen children’s tales, and then settled in with his own tomes. But as much as she likes the folklore and stories of this time - as much as she like puzzling over the progression of history, and what it all means - she has read all of the ones June gives her many times over. They are bickering over whether or not she should be trusted with one of his more ‘advanced’ material, when the procession halts. 

She feels it happen. The air stills, and the gentle tremors of movement that normally run through the aravel go quiet. The light changes, as if a flurry of clouds have suddenly moved away from the sun. But it was already bright. June glances at her, and then gets up to look out of one of the windows. 

He gasps.

“Lavellan!” he says, suddenly, gesturing towards her without turning to look. “Come here!”

She does, curious at the wonder in June’s tone. He surprises her yet again by scooping her up as soon as she gets near, holding her so she has the clearest possible view out of the window. But then her own breath catches in her chest.

There is a spirit out there.

It takes her a moment to recognize what it is, in fact; at first it just looks as though someone has lit the air with a great many lights, for some reason. Gold and white and silver. But in the centre of it, at the head of the procession, she can make out a figure. Bright and laughing, with many wings and limbs, as it converses with Ireth. The reflection from it casts the Keeper’s scales in a wash of light, that makes her glitter in return. 

Lavellan has never seen a spirit so big, or so bright. 

“Glory has come to visit us,” June says.

_Elven glory._

It is… beautiful. Strong and vibrant, and yet it spills outwards of itself. It makes the entire procession look like jewels strung upon a craftsman’s finest necklace. It makes her feel small and it makes her feel big, all at once, and she is still staring at it, lost in the radiance, when June moves and opens the hatch to the aravel. He carries her out, then, dropping into the open air and drifting along the currents, which weave now with motes of light and energy that trail from the vast spirit that has greeted them.

She reaches out to touch one, and it shies away; darting between her fingers, but refusing to fall into her grasp. Yet another one catches in the scarf she’s wearing, though, and as June flies she sees it flare out in front of her; almost playing with the edges of the fabric.

Many more members of the clan have congregated around Glory, and Ireth. June carries her straight up to the Keeper, who turns away from her conversation with the spirit to look at them.

“On my back,” she says. “Before you fall.”

“As if I would fall,” June scoffs. But he climbs up behind Ireth’s horns, and settles Lavellan in front of him, where she can see the fullness of Glory. It’s a little like looking into the sun. 

The spirit smiles at them.

But it does not stay for much longer. Its voice is quiet, despite a vastness and presence that would seem to imply it should boom like the resounding clamour of drums. It doesn’t need to, she supposes. In lyrical tones of elvhen that strain her understanding of the language, it tells Ireth that the banners of another clan are already flying at their intended campsite, and after some more peaceful back-and-forth, the spirit dissipates into the Dreaming once again. The warmth of it lingers for a long while afterwards, though.

“It was so big,” Lavellan says, quietly. She tilts her head back and looks up June, who is smiling. “I did not know spirits could be that _big.”_

“Mama was like that once,” June says. “Before she became Keeper.”

“Not quite like that,” Ireth refutes.

But however brief it was, Lavellan finds the moment - and the memory - sticks with her, and remains close at hand even long after her body has finished growing again.

 

~

 

The second time Lavellan meets Glory, it is… not a spirit.

The fragile figure at Falon’Din’s side is unfamiliar to her, at first. Small and delicate, and breathtakingly beautiful, but in a way that makes her feel deeply uneasy. The vast majority of elves are beautiful. Tastes may differ, but a large percentage of the population does strive to make themselves as physically appealing as possible. In this meeting, especially, there are the likes of the evanuris - even Falon’Din himself - and their highest ranking, most powerful servants to contend with. Yet this elf has such an air of cultivated flawlessness that it is impressive; and it takes her a moment to realize why it is disturbing, as well.

The elf’s countenance is not in keeping with their shape. The form is that of someone inordinately driven towards matters of physical perfections, like Sylaise’s Splendour, or Mythal’s Tiasa. But the personality she gleans seems more uncertain. Lost and distant and bewildered, and almost drugged, perhaps.

Leaning towards her brother, she catches his eye, and then nods at the newcomer.

“Who is that?” she wonders.

June hesitates, a moment.

“That is Falon’Din’s latest acquisition,” he declares. “Ghilan’nain trapped a spirit in a body she designed specifically to his tastes.”

Her eyebrows go up. Her jaw tightens, and she folds her arms, radiating disapproval. To do that to a spirit… to trap them in the first place, but then to give them into _Falon’Din’s_  care? In a body designed specifically to his ‘tastes’?

“Do not,” June warns.

“I had thought better of Ghilan’nain,” she says.

“It is not our concern. He favours Glory greatly; it is not all bad,” her brother insists.

She stills.

“ _Glory?”_  she demands, hissing low and furious now. The memory comes up, bright and vibrant as ever, and grief and fear clutch at her. No. Something so beautiful, so simply good about this world, could not be… _should_ not be…

June closes a firm hand around her arm.

“I have already tried to get Falon’Din to agree to some sort of trade. So have Elgar’nan and Mythal, and so has Sylaise. He will not budge. He revels in the knowledge of holding something we are all desperate to take from him. We must wait until he tires of his sport, and then move again,” he says.

 _I will kill him,_ she thinks, staring across the meeting hall at Falon’Din, as the ceremonies conclude. This is it. The time has finally come. She is going to slit his through, or cut him down in dragon’s form, or… something. All she needs is an opportunity; and admittedly, Falon’Din is very good at keeping her from getting those.

But she cannot kill him in a meeting full of all the assembled evanuris. So instead she watches Glory. Sometimes the bafflement gives way a little, she notes. The new elf watches the meeting proceed in turn, from their place at Falon’Din’s side, and occasionally those perfect eyes focus onto a particular speaker, or some event or other seems to spark a flare of comprehension. The spirit is still vast and disconnected from it’s body; it makes her think of Dirthamen at his very worst points, but perhaps even moreso. She thinks it could become accustomed to his form.

She thinks also, though, that if it must attempt to do so under Falon’Din’s care, it will never want to.

When the meeting breaks, Falon’Din keeps his new follower close; parading Glory around like a trophy, as others mill forward in interest. After a while it becomes clear that speaking directly to Glory yields only more bewilderment, and so it becomes a matter of the evanuris guiding the poor soul around the room like a pet on a leash, and receiving compliments and questions on their behalf. Clearly revelling in some aspect of the situation; but also, if she reads his body language more than his aura, dissatisfied with something about it.

It makes her gut churn.

It drags her memories back, and reminds her of some of the magisters she had been forced to deal with. More blatant in their slavery than most evanuris tend to be, and more brazen with their ‘favoured’ ones; dressing them as they pleased, dragging them to and fro, showing them off as symbols of status and means.

In the swarming throng, though, she cannot quite manage to approach either Glory or Falon’Din; and she doesn’t trust herself, if she got too close. She thinks she would draw a sword on the bastard, and that would be trouble even June couldn’t get her out of. Especially not in front of so many witnesses.

The next day is much the same, but by the third, some of the novelty of the scenario has worn off; and many elves seem as disquieted with the situation as she feels. She does manage to get closer, then. Drawing up to the pair during one of the refreshment breaks.

“Commander Glory,” she greets.

Falon’Din snorts.

“Why stoop so low, _General_  Lavellan? My Glory’s greatness far exceeds your own; I say their rank should, too,” the evanuris declares. “Grand General Glory. How does that sound?”

Falon’Din looks at June, then, as if to challenge her brother on the matter of whose favoured servant is to be held in more esteem.

“Grand General Glory,” Lavellan amends, simply. “You seemed interested in the matter of troop movements in the central regions. I was wondering if you might share your thoughts with me?”

Glory blinks. But that hazy blue gaze of theirs focuses a bit, at her question.

“Hoping to steal some useful tactics from my assets?” Falon’Din asks.

She looks at him, and lets a sliver of disdain spiral free of her grasp.

“We are all on the same side in this war, my lord. Unless you have just declared otherwise. In which case, I will gladly-”

June shouts for her, then.

Actually _shouts_  for her. Some evanuris shout for their followers with frequency; Elgar’nan is prone to it, and it’s not uncommon of Falon’Din, or Andruil under the right circumstances. Her brother is not usually on that list, however, and the raised tone of his voice draws a few curious glances, as he sharply motions her back towards him.

She looks at Falon’Din, before inclining her head with the minimum of required respect; and then nods to Glory, before she answers her brother’s summons.

“You cannot duel Falon’Din,” he tells her, as soon as she is close. “There is no way for you to win that. You know it. Either he will kill you, or you will defeat him, and either way the others will demand your blood. Elgar’nan likes you, Sister, but he will burn you alive if you kill even his least-favoured child.”

“We have to do something,” she insists.

“Patience,” June says. “Just give it time.”

She looks back at Glory, and is not certain they _have_  time.


	5. Sylaise

The first time Lavellan meets Sylaise, she’s a dragon.

And she’s _huge._

Not quite as big as Ireth used to be, but still. She’s a bigger dragon than most. Her scales are the colour of champaign and her eyes are sharp and shrewd, and she cuts through the enemy ranks like a hot knife through butter. A plume of blood sweeps up in her wake as she brings down a massive chunk of their opponents’ forces with a wave of crushing magic, the air around her crackling over her scales.

As first impressions go, Lavellan’s seen less impressive ones.

They don’t actually talk for the first time until well after that occasion, however, when June - after months of flailing around like an idiot over this women - finally introduces them to each other during the summer festival. Sylaise has the look of her mother to her, but she is distinctly different, as well. And she is lovely, of course; everything about her is immaculately done, from her nails to the flowing gold river of her dress, to the jewellery weaving its way across her limbs and nesting in the perfect tumble of her hair.

She has not quite perfected looking as terrifying as she is beautiful, the way her mother has.

Lavellan can appreciate some softened edges, though.

Sylaise looks her over in turn. She is wearing dress armour herself; not inappropriate, but uncommon for a festival which tends to favour light, airy outfits, more comfortable for dancing and roaming the sun-soaked streets of the city.

“It is good to know that if the city should be sieged, you are prepared for it,” Sylaise notes; though her tone is less mocking than amused. “Your brother mentioned you had an eye for utility.”

“My brother also mentioned that you would provide more than enough beauty to see the proceeding through; it seemed prudent to rely upon other traits for myself,” she replies, inclining her head.

Sylaise laughs.

“How gracefully you bow out from the competition.”

“Competition with you,” she counters. “This festival has already declared its radiant summer goddess; pronouncements are only a formality. But there are tournaments. Though, I daresay, if one of our great dragons is sweeping through those, I _may_ be forced to yield to you there, as well.”

Again, Sylaise laughs, as Lavellan smiles back at her. Not so bad for a future tyrannical would-be goddess, she supposes. June glances somewhat uncertainly between them, but when the music starts up, Sylaise threads her arm through Lavellan’s own.

“Dance with me,” Sylaise requests. “We shall make your brother worry that I like you better, now.”

“You know how to appeal to a sibling’s sense of mischief,” Lavellan notes.

“As the youngest of four, I should hope so,” her new dance partner agrees.

They move into the throng of dancers, flitting across the sunlit platforms as the musicians fill the air with lively music. Wisps dart about the dancers’ feet and spirits flit through, watching the movements and listening to the ebb and flow of the celebratory emotions as they do. Sylaise is graceful and elegant and sends flashes of multi-coloured fire through the paving with her steps. Magic that resonates harmoniously with the framework of the city where she was born. Lavellan meets her with more solid, subtle steps, matching her pace but letting her partner serve as the bright banner, as she gives her an anchor for her displays.

They finish to a round of applause.

Lavellan takes a step back, and bows over Sylaise’s hand.

For her part, Sylaise is smiling, breath spent.

“Do you think we made him worry?” the young goddess wonders.

Lavellan looks over at June, and sees that he is wearing one of his most sour, consternated expressions.

She nearly doubles over laughing.


	6. Dorian Pavus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some explanation (because the rest of this is all so straight-forward...). Discussions on my tumblr led to the possibility of other Dragon Age party members/characters ending up in Elvhenan, and of course, travelling there in the same style which Lavellan employed. Subsequent speculations led to questions of what the Lavellan in this AU would do if suddenly saddled with a de-aged companion. I picked Dorian, because time travel.

She had always expected to find Solas again. For years she had looked for him in the past; and then she had given up that search, and settled in to wait instead. But when the white wolf had first come into her sight, it had seemed, in part, like the fulfilment of an inevitability.

This, though.

This is _entirely_  unexpected.

She feels the pull of magic. Something old and deep in her recognizes it, although her mind cannot place it. But her feet move, swift, and before she can think twice she’s heading for it; dashing away from the road, and the procession she had been leading. Voices call out to her. She doesn’t answer; she’s too focused on moving, racing. The air around her is snapping.

She knows this feeling.

Where does she know it from?

The sky is darkening. Clouds twisting, like the beginnings of a storm. A low wind kicks up, and carries shocks of green flame along with it. Between the trees in front of her, it’s darkened. Black, like smoke; like a tear in the world.

Oh.

 _That’s_  where she knows it from.

She watches as the darkness flares brightly for an instant, and then something rips its way into the world. As violent as any birth. Briefly, she sees the shape of a man, and it’s a shape she knows. It’s a shape she’s seen in dreams and memories and mourning, though it’s been a long time since she could recall his precise features. It only takes an instant, though, of seeing him again, for recognition to dawn; and then the magic seems to collapse in on itself.

Like a dying star. It wraps around the figure, and works into a searing ball of light; and drops to the ground. When it clears, the clouds depart. The magic in the air quiets to a low hum. 

An infant is on the ground.

Lavellan sucks in a breath, and then moves towards him.

Shit.

 _How?_  her mind demands. But that’s less pressing than the reality of the tiny, vulnerable form lying amidst the undergrowth. The newly-arrived infant has brown skin and curly hair, and chubby cheeks and wide, shocked eyes. Lavellan tears off her cloak, mindful of the cold air, and gathers him up. He stares at her as she wraps him in fabric, and lifts him carefully into her arms. He’s still, and quiet; though she can feel a tangle of emotions in the air around him. Confusion. Surprise. Pain. Sorrow. Grief. 

She remembers the shape she had first seen.

She remembers long, long ago, when she had found herself staring up at a woman who was more dragon than elf.

“Dorian?” she asks.

The baby reaches a tiny hand, and presses it against her cheek.

And promptly bursts into tears.

 

~

 

“You did not find him in the woods,” June says.

“I found him in the woods,” she repeats.

“That is _impossible!”_  her brother snaps.

“Fifty-eight elves saw me run into the woods without a baby, and come back with one,” she says, folding her arms. “What do you imagine, June? That I managed a full pregnancy and birth in the five minutes I was gone from their sight? Or that I found the baby, in the woods, as I say?”

June’s mouth twists.

“It is not as if this is unprecedented,” she points out, a little more quietly.

“That is precisely why it is so bizarre!” her brother snaps, waving an arm through the air. “Babies are not meant to just _appear_  in the wilderness!”

“Well, apparently there is some many-thousands of years old criminal who has been running around, having children, and leaving them in forests,” she snaps back. From his place on the couch, surrounded by several cushions, Dorian looks at her in concern. He doesn’t speech much elvhen, as she recalls, but he definitely recognizes her tone of voice.

June looks like this actually strikes him as disturbingly possible. He shoots a glance at Dorian, and then towards her. Then he throws up his arms.

“Fine,” he says. “Alright. You found him. Against all odds and entirely out of the blue.”

“I admit, it does seem unlikely that I, of all people, should have happened to be in the right place at the right time,” she concedes.

June lets out a long-suffering breath. As if she has done this on purpose; as if she _could_  have done this on purpose. He looks at Dorian again, for a long moment. Dorian looks back at him. His tiny mouth curls into a frown. Her brother hadn’t made the best first impression, when he’d pointed at the infant in her arms and loudly asked what it was.

“And you’re supposed to be _clever,”_ she had replied, unable to resist.

Dorian had patted her. She suspects in approval, though he probably didn’t make out much of what was being said.

“What do you want to do with him?” June asks her.

She lets out a breath of her own.

“Since you are asking me that, I suspect you have already guessed that I do not want to give him up to someone else,” she says, shifting a bit on her feet.

“There are elves who would be ecstatic to have him, who are entirely eager for parenthood and would not care the least bit about his peculiar origins. Or those odd little ears,” June tells her. Dorian makes a tiny sound of protest. She moves over to him, and picks him up. He gives her a worried look, and jams a fist up to his mouth, before seeming to remember himself and pulling it back down again. She suspects he caught some of the gist of that.

“He came to me, June. I have to look after him,” she says, seriously. Turning to her brother, she catches and holds his gaze. “I need to.”

Dorian is quiet.

June holds her stare, and she can see the gears in his head turning. See him figuring out that he’s not going to dissuade her; that this is important, and serious, and the she’s stubbornly set upon her path. Then he looks away, and shakes his head.

“Shit,” he says.

She manages a small smile.

“You did say you wanted to expand the family,” she points out.

“It will be centuries before he is useful,” June counters, with a dismissive gesture.

“Give him a little credit, June. He has already passed the monumental trial of making it this far,” she says. “Give him a few decades and he will be overturning regimes and starting fires all over the place, I am sure.”

“Ga,” Dorian manages, patting her arm. He really is astonishingly adorable like this. But then again, he’s a baby. What else would he be? She offers him a reassuring smile.

June just shakes his head.

 

~

 

The first time she takes Dorian to see Pride, she warns him beforehand.

She’s explained most of what’s going on, as best as she can, with rusty common and careful patience. For his own part, Dorian has been able to explain precious little. He’s in mourning, and she recalls that feeling. The confusion and grief and helplessness. She holds him when he cries, and does her best to interpret the garbled sounds that he’s capable of making, and the awkward letters he can scrape out with clumsy hands. It’s been a long time since she read that alphabet, and Dorian’s coordination is shot straight to hell. But she gathers that the same force which brought her back also affected him, and that he doesn’t know why things happened this way, and that he’s frustrated, scared, and traumatized, and also that he’s glad she found him.

She brings him to Mythal’s Arlathan estate, and it’s utter chaos for a little while. Every elf in the building, it seems, wants to look at the baby. They peer at him and fuss and coo, and wonder at his round ears, but mostly they compliment his curly hair and intelligent eyes and ‘darling little features’.

Dorian alternately seems to enjoy all the fussing attention, and resent it. She lets him explore it when he cares to, but whenever he turns his face away, she forces his admirers off. Mythal has them brought to her parlour, insisting that they take a rest, and providing food for Dorian and snacks for the both of them.

“It is incredibly life-altering, to raise a child,” Mythal says.

“He has certainly changed things around on me,” Lavellan agrees.

“May I hold him?” the evanuris asks.

She glances at Dorian, who looks back at her, and then uncurls his fingers in a tiny wave. A gesture that she’s come to recognize as ‘it’s okay’. With a nod and a smile to Mythal, she hands him carefully over. Mythal straightens out the soft clothing he’s in a bit, and her expression softens as she looks at Dorian.

“What a sweet face,” she compliments.

“He will be handsome,” Lavellan confirms.

Dorian reaches up, and smacks Mythal on the face.

The evanuris blinks, and catches his hand. But she only sighs, and shakes her head, and talks about the antics of babies. Lavellan gives Dorian a look, which he returns with pure innocence.

“What is his name?”

“Dorian.”

Mythal blinks.

“A… unique choice,” she says. “Grey Mirror? But would not Dorvian or Dorfvian have been more customary?”

“Perhaps,” Lavellan concedes. “But I did not care for how those sat upon the tongue.”

“It does flow better this way,” Mythal concedes. 

When the evanuris is satisfied that Lavellan and Dorian have sufficiently rested and been refreshed - and interrogated - she takes them to one of the gardens, and Pride is at last summoned. 

Pride stares at Lavellan, holding Dorian, with fairly wide eyes.

Mythal observes them for a moment, before taking her leave.

After a beat, Pride moves closer; his gaze flits between herself and Dorian. She’s focused enough on parsing his reactions that she doesn’t quite realize that the baby in her arms is radiating anger, at first.

Then Dorian squirms in her grasp, as soon as Pride gets close, and starts flailing his tiny fists at him.

“Ga!” he shouts. “Grraa, da, ba! BAAAA!” His arms wave, and Pride takes a hurried step back, as Lavellan is forced to shift her grip on Dorian to keep him from struggling his way out of her arms. His furious baby-talk rises along with his temper, as he glares are Pride and flails, gesturing until the air in front of him sparks.

It’s only a tiny flame. But it still makes Pride’s eyes go huge, and Lavellan’s, too; babies… should not be able to do that.

Then Dorian bursts into tears.

His little legs kick, and he wails, jamming his hands against his face. The air around him sours with misery. She holds him close as he sobs. Huge, fat tears pour from his eyes, as his face crumples. He grips her shirt and leans into her shoulder, and he cries, and cries, and cries.

Pride looks horrified, now.

“What did I do?” he asks, aghast.

“Nothing,” she assures him, quietly. She runs a hand up and down Dorian’s back in slow, gentle strokes. “He has been through a hard time, and some things just seem to set him off. Perhaps if you were a wolf? It might be something you are wearing that has struck him the wrong way.”

Pride hesitates only a moment, before he shifts forms.

The white wolf makes his way tentatively over. He sits down not too far from her. At length, Lavellan sinks into the sweet garden grass, too, still doing her best to comfort Dorian. A few minutes go by, quiet but for the sound of Dorian’s crying. The air around the three of them changes, a bit, and then Mythal’s Compassion drifts out of it. The spirit is quiet as it settles in with them. But it presses its own careful touch to Dorian, and whispers its own soothing nonsense to him.

Finally, he begins to settle.

As he does, Pride ventures his nose a little closer, and blinks down at him.

Dorian turns, and looks at the wolf.

“Ba!” he exclaims, and reaches out to smack him.

Pride hastily draws out of range again. Crestfallen.

 

~

 

“Your baby hates me,” Pride bemoans, the third time she takes Dorian to see him.

“Dorian doesn’t hate you,” she says.

“Ba!” Dorian counters, from his pram. He makes a tiny, baby growl, and narrows his eyes.

Pride looks bewildered and distressed and utterly at a loss. He is wearing a rather atypical outfit today, it being a soothing butter yellow, and has styled his hair differently from usual. Sadly, it hasn’t done much to deter Dorian’s… reaction to him.

“Why does the baby hate me?” Pride wonders, just a little desperately.

“Da baaaa! Baaaa!” Dorian says, waving angrily.

“Dorian,” she says, and lets out a breath. It’s not as if she doesn’t understand. She does. And she knows she’s had a much longer time to… move away from everything that happened. To gain some reasonable distance from it. But even so. She moves over, and picks Dorian up, and settles him into her lap.

He glares at her.

“Dorian,” she says, again, switching to common. “You are a baby. You can’t fight Solas. Even if you could, you _know_  I’d get in the middle of it. He hasn’t done any of the things you remember. And if I do my job right, he never will. He’s just another elf, right now. It’s another life. It’s another time. It’s practically another world.”

Dorian stares at her.

He sniffs, and blinks. And then a miserable sound drifts up out of him, and he leans into her. She sighs, and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“I know,” she says.

“Mrrrr,” he insists, curling his fists into her shirt.

“I know,” she repeats.

Pride stares.

“What was that you were… saying to him?” he wonders. “Gibberish?”

“Baby talk is soothing,” she replies.

  
~

 

Dorian gets on much better with Haninan.

“Where is my pretty grandson?” Haninan croons, making an appearance in her chambers in the tower almost as soon as they get in the door. Dorian burbles a it, and lets out an exasperated sigh; Haninan knows full well that Dorian isn’t a ‘real’ baby, and Dorian knows that he knows, but this hasn’t deterred Haninan at all. Just like it never deterred him with her.

Dorian has no objections to be handed off to him, anyway. Haninan bounces him a bit, and then leans over and kisses her cheek.

“My time travelling wilderness babies,” he says, fond.

“Kindly tell your pretty grandson to stop picking fights with decorated war heroes,” she asks, as she lets out a breath, and makes an effort to relax. There’s a mountain of paperwork waiting for her, and a message from Sylaise, by the looks of it.

“Such violent children,” Haninan tuts. He peppers Dorian with kisses. Dorian sighs and waves at him, and does a poor job of pretending not to enjoy all the unabashed paternal affection and comfort. She leaves the two of them to head for her desk, and lets her father take Dorian over to the large collection of toys he has accumulated.

Most have been gifts. High-ranking elves and several evanuris and old friends have all sent her things; notes of congratulations, invitations and requests to visit, and presents for Dorian. Sometimes she forgets just how _many_  people she knows, until something dramatic happens and brings the accumulated connections of her life up to the forefront all at once.

Most of the toys are lovely things that would probably interest an actual baby a great deal, but are perfectly dull to Dorian. As soon as it would be considered polite, she plans on re-gifting them all to other new parents in June or Sylaise’s territories.  There are, however, some magical toys and clockwork figures and puzzles that Dorian seems to like. Haninan enjoys helping him sort through the pile, and find worthwhile things for him to practice his coordination and spellwork with.

She settles into her desk, and listen to the quiet rhythm of Haninan’s voice and Dorian’s practice burbles as she attends the various letters and missives.

The time passes peacefully enough. At length, though, she realizes that the tone of Haninan’s voice has changed; and that Dorians babbling has gone all quiet. She looks up, and sees that her father has settled Dorian onto his chest, and there is a little cloud of misery around him again.

“It is alright,” Haninan says, gently. “We have you.” He runs a hand down the baby’s back, and there is a look in his eye that is old and wistful, and coloured with longing. His eyes are shimmering suspiciously. Lavellan closes her own for a moment, and knows he’s thinking of Ireth. Of when she was like Dorian. When she was small and hurting and they didn’t know how to help her, except to hold and soothe and try their best to offer some comfort.

Even June had tried, she remembers. Baffled though he was by her unhappiness.

Quietly, she gets up from her desk, and goes and sits with them. Haninan glances at her, and then moves and arm and pulls her close to his side, as she gets her own around him, and rests a hand on Dorian.

“My poor lost babies,” Haninan says.

She tightens her hold on him.

“Poor lost Papa,” she counters.

He rests his head on top of hers, but doesn’t refute that.

 

~

 

Dorian looks at Pride.

Pride looks at Dorian. He has the expression of someone who is staring down a bomb, and just waiting for it to go off.

At length, Dorian lets out a long, weary sigh. His whole body seems to deflate with it. Then he turns his head in his pram, and examines some of the nearby garden flowers.

Pride looks… tentatively hopeful, now.

“He did not shout at me,” he notes. His voice is very quiet, as if he is slightly worried that the comment will remind Dorian of something that he has forgotten to do.

“Thank you, Dorian,” she says.

Dorian waves an arm at her, but keeps his focus firmly on the plants.

Still.

It’s a start.


	7. Dorian's Family

Dorian’s life is strange.

There is a decent chance that Dorian’s life has _always_ been strange. But, comparatively, there is ‘a bit beside the norm’ and then there’s ‘getting turned into a baby and travelling back in time only to find that a friend of yours already made that trip and has lived for thousands of years in an ancient society of immortal elves, but, good news, at least they’re willing to adopt you and help out with the transition period’.

Now _that_ is _unquestionably_ strange.

Also, while he realizes he is an exceptionally adorable child – naturally – he doesn’t recall the former Inquisitor being quite so _huggy_ before. Really, it is a bit much to put up with, Dorian thinks, as he finds himself picked up off the sitting room floor and subjected to a flurry of forehead kisses. _Control yourself, woman._

“Ta-gaa,” is what he manages to say, before letting out a tremendous sigh, and patting Lavellan on the shoulder.

“Sorry, Dorian. But you really are very cute,” she tells him, not sounding apologetic in the least.

He supposes he will just have to endure it.

~

Lavellan’s adoptive father is, if anything, much worse on the subject of excessive affection.

This is despite the fact that he also knows full well that Dorian is a grown mage from the future trapped in a baby’s body. And also despite never having met Dorian before in his life. Apparently, Dorian’s cherubic features are simply that compelling.

Case in point – as he toddles successfully onto his wobbly legs for the first time since his life veered sharply towards the bizarre, Haninan calls for Lavellan and watches Dorian’s meager progress with what seems to be absolute rapture. He waits until Dorian’s balance finally gives out on him, and then catches him before he can land on his backside, swooping him up and cuddling him. Kisses are liberally deposited onto the top of his head and across his cheeks.

“You did it!” Haninan enthuses. “My grandson is so brilliant!”

“What did he do?” Lavellan asks, breathless as she finally arrives; she must have been down the corridor and run all the way, Dorian thinks. Though why she would go to the trouble, given that her father has been known to call her over for the most ludicrous things, he can’t possibly imagine.

Still.

“Walk,” Dorian supplies, succinctly, in elven.

Lavellan’s face immediately lights up.

 _Really,_ Dorian thinks. It’s not like he’s never done it _before_ , he just hasn’t managed it since the obvious occurred. There’s no need for all this fuss, even if he did go rather far for a first attempt. If he does say so himself.

Lavellan moves over, and brushes his cheek. Haninan continues to cuddle him.

“Well done,” she says.

 _Of course it was,_ he thinks. _I was the one doing it._

Just the same, though. He supposes it is rather… warming, altogether.

~

At least, Dorian thinks, when it’s coming from Lavellan’s minions, it makes slightly more sense. After all, they think he’s an _actual_ baby. The fussing and the cooing is only natural on that front, and it would probably seem very conspicuous of him to object, so he does his best to sell the part.

He’s in Lavellan’s office, further mastering his new mobility skills, when Commander Desire strides in. Followed, as ever, by a small flock of spirits. Dorian looks up, and does a tally of the ones trailing after her today. Grace is the most conspicuous, flowing through the air behind her. Then Honour, bright but steady. Loyalty’s at the finish, he thinks, trailing with more subtlety and discretion than the other two.

“Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?” Desire asks.

Dorian had never seen a full-figured elf before in his life, until Lavellan had introduced him to this agent of hers. It rather brought home the dire straits of the mortal elves living in their time, really. He just thought they _couldn’t_ look like that, not that they were all so short on food that it never became an option. Though, he also supposes, given all the shape-shifting, that the rules might be a bit different now.

As the commander and Lavellan discuss some matters involving another faction of elves, Grace drifts closer. Dorian attempts to pay attention to the conversation, but finds the spirit’s attention immensely distracting. He’s going to blame his infant impulses on that. He’s always been partial to shiny things, of course, but never quite this badly.

Grace reaches for him, and he tells himself he’s just selling the part a bit more as he reaches back; his frustratingly tiny, chubby fingers threading with light as the spirit curls around him. Grace takes his other hand, too, and begins gently guiding his steps; coaxing him to move along the floor in pointed patterns and helping him turn.

It’s not until they’ve been at it for a while that he realizes the voices in the room have gone quiet.

He looks over, nearly losing his balance before Grace corrects him, and sees that Lavellan is staring intently at a stack of reports. Desire, by contrast, is looking towards him, and his little dance around the room with one of her spirit flock.

She smiles when she sees him looking back, and heads over.

“Having fun, you two?” she asks.

“Ya,” Dorian manages. No point in beating around the bush, really.

Grace shimmers.

“I am going to teach him to dance!” the spirit insists. “He will be such a beautiful dancer. He will charm absolutely everyone!”

Desire laughs.

“Of course he will,” she agrees, and then – because it is an inevitably fact of his life that he is to be lifted up all the time, now – she bends and scoops him into her arms. “So tiny. What do you suppose he thinks of?” the commander wonders.

“Social politics and advanced magical theorems,” Lavellan supplies, without looking up from her reports.

Desire laughs.

There is a brief tap at the door, then, and a signal flare of emotional intent, before Uthvir strides in.

If Desire is soft and welcoming and approachable, even in layers of elven armour, with a weapon nearly bigger than she is at her back, then Uthvir is more like the narrow, sharpened haft of a spear. Not quite menacing or unapproachable, Dorian would say – not by a long shot – but sharper and more direct.

“Ah, so you _are_ back,” Uthvir says, and then comes up short. “You have the baby!” they exclaim.

Whatever they had first come into the room for, then, seems to be forgotten, as they head over to himself and Desire. They run a soft hand across his head and smile at him.

“How is he doing, then? He does not look much bigger than he did before.”

“It has only been three days since the last time you saw him. Babies grow fast, but not _that_ fast,” Lavellan says, smiling a bit. Dorian sighs. It proves a mistake; all at once he gets both elves fussing over him for it, as Desire shifts her grip on him and Uthvir suggests that perhaps they should hold him instead, and a minor back-and-forth of disagreements ensue until Desire finally relents and deposits him into the other agent’s arms.

“Hello, Tiny Dorian,” Uthvir says, grinning in triumph.

“Uvir,” Dorian solemnly returns.

Apparently, that merits a kiss on the cheek.

He supposes he can’t blame them, all things considered. He is _exceptionally_ compelling, in all forms.

~

As with all rules, there are exceptions.

June, Dorian finds, is not a cuddly person. This supposed uncle-slash-ancient-false-god puts Dorian in mind of other, actually-related-to-him relatives that he’s had in the past. Whenever he sees the man, he’s usually at the head of some procession, or standing behind a desk, glowering at blueprints and snapping at servants. Clearly a man with a _vision._

Not that he seems particularly unpleasant about it, either. Dorian has definitely seen worse. June sometimes pats his head, and asks Lavellan if she needs anything for him, and at one point had enthused rather genuinely over how well Dorian articulates himself.

Dorian is three years old the first time June holds him, though.

Lavellan is in conversation with her brother in the man’s tower chambers, holding Dorian at her hip; the visit is only meant to be a brief check-in on some matter of a territory disagreement with Andruil, but midway through the conversation, an alarm goes off.

“Insurgents,” Lavellan curses, and before Dorian can blink, he suddenly finds himself being shoved into June’s equally-surprised-seeming arms. To his credit, the man recovers quickly enough, and holds him as Lavellan snaps at them both to stay put, and then takes off out of the door.

Dorian blinks.

He looks up at June, who blinks as well.

 _Aren’t you supposed to be some massively accomplished mage?_ Dorian thinks. _Shouldn’t you be racing off to deal with this, too?_

June seems to be of a similar mind. But the man looks around, and then looks at Dorian; and apparently realizes there’s no one else for him to hand the baby safely off to. Dorian mostly expects him to march out of his chambers, then, and call for a servant, before rushing off to do whatever it is ancient elven lords do when their alarms go off.

Instead, his ‘uncle’ settles into one of the office seats, and lets loose with a long and exasperated breath.

After a few moments, the man looks at him critically.

“You are very calm,” he notes.

 _I can keep my head in a crisis,_ Dorian thinks. Though he finds it rather difficult to resist the urge to anxiously shove his fingers in his mouth.

“Your mother was like that,” June continues, and to Dorian’s surprise, he brushes a hand carefully over the top of his head. “When she was a baby, my own mother used to do just this if there was trouble. Shove her into my arms and tell me to stay where it was safe.”

 _Well, apparently you managed the job, considering you both made it this far,_ Dorian mentally replies.

“You b’safe, good ya,” he commends aloud, hoping that sounds right. The elven language is much easier to understand, currently, than speak. He would like to blame all of his missteps on being an infant, but a fair few are just regular grammatical errors, he suspects.

June smiles.

“I suppose you will also be pawing through my books in due time,” he muses.

 _Almost certainly,_ Dorian agrees. But the man’s gaze is distant, and really… quite sad, he thinks. Though the sorrow doesn’t permeate the atmosphere around him very much. Still, it’s there; Dorian can feel it. A grief edged with bitterness. Victory and failure wrapped up in one.

He knows that feeling.

What he does _not_ know is what to make of it when June gently places a hand around the back of his head, and pulls him close, and begins to tremble just slightly. Something wet drops into Dorian’s curls. It takes him a half a moment to realize it’s tears.

June is crying.

 _Are you having some sort of existential crisis, or are you always this bad at handling dangerous situation?_ Dorian wonders. _Because I can see why you might always end up being the babysitter, if that’s the case._

But really, though.

Damn.

There’s just something about seeing someone go absolutely to pieces that makes it hard to look at them the same way again.

Reaching up, he pats June’s wet cheek.

“You be no to sad,” he says. “Dorian here. Be happy!”

His efforts earn him a watery chuckle, at least.

And by the time Lavellan returns, there are no traces of the meltdown. June hands him back to his supposed mother with a calm, even slightly annoyed air.

“There _is_ an expectation that I should be present for emergencies as well, you know,” he says, pointedly.

Lavellan is unapologetic.

“It was you or me, and I am the one who coordinates such things,” she reasons. “After all, who else would I trust with Dorian in a pinch?”

 _Haninan,_ Dorian thinks. _Desire. Uthvir. Darellath. Aravasha. Lathiras. That very courteous janitor. Some spirits._

June lets out a dismissive breath, half a muttered curse. But there must be something in the air, because a moment later he reaches over and clasps Lavellan’s shoulder.

“All is well?”

Lavellan’s expression softens a bit, and she nods.

“All is well, Brother,” she promises.

~

Yes, Dorian thinks, his life is strange, and it is quite a chore to be so universally popular and adored.

His ‘aunt’ Sylaise is arguing fervently over whether or not the plans for her latest fortress are ethical enough to pass muster, as Lavellan firmly tries to dissuade her on the matter of a floating crystal garden greenhouse. Fascinating, Dorian supposes; but he can see where that might not be worth a few people’s lives, too.

He gives it a minute, and then toddles over to Sylaise’s chair, and beams up at her.

She wavers a bit, looking down at him.

“Aunty no fight,” he says. Then he raises his arms, making the universal gesture for ‘up’. “Hug Dorian!”

Sylaise holds out for approximately half a second.

Then she folds like a house of cards under the unstoppable onslaught of his cuteness, and pulls him up into her lap. She brushes some of the curls off of his forehead, and coos at him. Momentarily distracted from her argument.

After all.

If he is going to be irresistible, he might as well take full advantage of it.

He catches Lavellan’s eye, and winks.


	8. Magic Lessons

It has, Lavellan decides, been too long since she spent time with a child.

This is probably the best explanation for why she has the most ridiculous, besotted look on her face as Haninan goes through magic lessons with Dorian.

It takes her back. Not even back to her old life, and distant days of Breaches and Skyholds and Tevinter and Solas, but to when she’d been that small, sitting in Haninan’s lap, listening to him explain the fabric of the universe and matters of will and focus and attention. Dorian is an adorable four-year-old, now. In appearance, at least.

He’s also a very attentive student, and occasionally chirps in with very serious questions that are, perhaps, just the tiniest bit undermined by their ridiculously cute source. Haninan answers him with the bare minimum of pauses required to kiss the top of his head, under the circumstances.

But that’s not to say Dorian isn’t still quite adept. Even toning it down around others as he does, he’s already being hailed a prodigy. June’s all in his usual twist about it, of course. Part thrilled to have another member of his family produce some undeniable talent, part terrified that he’s going to be outdone by his curly-haired nephew in a few hundred years (less than that, Lavellan would say; but she doesn’t mention this to her brother).

Sylaise is a bit more pragmatic about the whole thing. She keeps sending tutors, and gifts, and has firmly established herself as _Favourite Aunt Sylaise._ Dorian plays the part of the charming child perfectly for her. It probably helps that, apart from his ‘odd’ ears, he’s about as beautiful as babies come.

It makes her think of little Thenvunin, and his troubles; all bright smiles and sweetness just the same. And Aravasha when she’d been small. Dimples and mischief and endless tantrums. Esenastenasalin, tottering around Sylaise’s halls, grief-stricken but resilient in a way that made Lavellan ache.

Dorian gets a shimmering orb of flame, holding steady just above his palms. Purple and brilliant. Haninan enthuses over his success, and then closes a hand over the fire. He turns it over, and shows Dorian how to reshape it. When he’s done, he drops a handful of glittering little purple gems into Dorian’s palms. They hold shape for a moment, and then burst into a multitude of flames.

Dorian claps.

He catches himself a moment later. A curl of embarrassment ripples through the air.

Lavellan claps, too, then.

“Very nice,” she commends.

“You don’t have to pander to me,” Dorian says. But the embarrassment eases, and his self-consciousness passes a moment later, when Haninan draws him back into the lesson.

 _Damn,_ she thinks, as she carries on ignoring her paperwork and watching them.

Far too cute.


	9. Young Thenvunin

Lavellan wants to kidnap this baby.

It’s a bad impulse, she knows. Kidnapping babies, as a general rule, is not a good idea. But she gives herself a bit of a pass on the inclination just because of the circumstance. Thenvunin is something that’s rare to see in this ancient world, full of handmade bodies and magic and shapeshifters - he’s a tiny, hobbled little toddler, with obvious and abundant deformities. The first time Lavellan meets him he’s wrapped in shimmering blankets to disguise his imperfections. He is not, she is warned, a ‘cute’ baby - but she finds herself disagreeing.

Thenvunin is an adorable baby. He laughs and smiles and claps abundantly, even if it takes him some doing to get his uneven little arms together for it. He has sparkling eyes and plenty of intelligence, and is sweet besides - when she gets his parents’ reluctant permission to touch him, and takes him out of the blankets, he pats at her face and kicks and grins, and babbles happy introductions at her.

He loves to be carried and likes to direct her on where to take him. He shows her his favourite toys - a little nervous when she handles them, until it becomes apparent that she won’t be breaking them any time soon - and introduces her to a few of the local spirits, and has her ferry him into the garden because he wants to look at the flowers. Thenvunin is _exceedingly_  cute.

He just isn’t ordinary.

But not being ordinary in this world can be a death sentence. Thenvunin is lucky to have been born into Mythal’s service, and to relatively esteemed parentage. The healers say he will be ‘fully recovered’ once he reaches adulthood. Lavellan finds herself already making plans to intervene if things should turn down a darker path. 

But for the day, she mostly enjoys giving his parents a reprieve from all of their worries, and freeing little Thenvunin from being wrapped up and hidden away from everyone else. He happily indulges her, as she helps him eat lunch, and he shows her how to arrange his dolls so that they can enjoy a makeshift lunch party along with them. His mother watches; his father in one of the studies, going over his drafts, it seems.

When it is time for her to leave, she kisses Thenvunin’s nose, and he laughs and pats her face.

His mother sees her out.

“Most people are uncomfortable around him,” the esteemed servant of Mythal informs her.

“He is adorable,” she replies. “If you would have me visit again, I would be glad to. It is so rare to be able to spend time with children.” She lets a hint of wistfulness drift through her. It is not wholly manufactured; though perhaps a bit exaggerated.

Thenvunin’s mother regards her knowingly, even so.

“We should be happy to have you any time, General.”

Lavellan smiles.

“Next time I shall bring gifts,” she promises.

To the workshops, she thinks. To find a way to help a tiny toddler more easily investigate his garden.

She wants to kidnap this baby. But there are also easier ways to try and improve things for him.


	10. Uthvir and Desire

Falon’Din’s spirit vault.

Deep in the heart of enemy territory. One of the most dangerous places in all of Elvhenan. Or, well, not _quite,_ Uthvir supposes. But still a very perilous location. Built out of old desecrated shrines, in the bones of a Keeper which the evanuris had slain himself. The bleached remains have been twisted. Re-shaped and formed, carved with runes and enchantments, and bent until they are sloping around the central point of a deep, deep drop, that does not sink into the earth so much as vanish half into the Dreaming.

At the bottom, a dark well whispers and gleams. Barriers trap the energy inside. There to wait until the monster comes to devour it all.

“It does somewhat remind me of Arlathan,” Uthvir muses, as they crouch in the shadows between trees. 

There is a long, long stretch of earth that has been cleared around the vault. A circle of death things, riddled with the bones of unlikely animals and the charred husks of dead trees. A deadly barrier ensures that nothing flesh and blood can make it past a certain point; and the trap in the well guarantees that any spirits which venture too close will be drawn into it.

“Do I want to ask why?” Desire wonders, quietly, from where she is hidden beside them; shielded from view by a large but long-dead tree.

Uthvir does not think anyone is watching them, though. Falon’Din would have to trust his guards with the temptation of proximity to his power. The man would likely rather trust his enchantments; and there are no signs of patrols, or movements through the surrounding terrain. It is entirely possible that none of his followers even know this place exists.

“Grim architectural themes,” Uthvir supplies. Reaching down, they break a small branch off of a nearby fern – still alive, resilient thing – and toss it towards the Ring of Death. As usual, it withers and wilts the second it crosses over the line. “The vault is made of Keeper bones, desecrated shrines, and a pit full of sacrifices. What do you suppose Arlathan is made out of?”

“Rainbows and diamonds?” Desire suggests, wryly.

“Those, too, most likely,” they concede.

They quiet, then, though, and focus on moving to a new segment of the barrier. It is doubtful they will find anything, though. Falon’Din _expects_ intruders to try and sneak past some gap in the walls. He will have, therefore, built them exceedingly well. It might be possible to dig up to the vault from below, if the dwarves would be willing to help. But then, that would likely be difficult to disguise; and the general has no desire to draw Falon’Din’s gaze below the earth.

Pausing a moment, Uthvir casts an eye up towards the clouds. Even in the ‘safe’ zone beyond the borders of the vault’s traps, the plant life is patchier than it should be. Shadows are still deep, though, and the air is charged with the implications of magical irregularities. Some of the deadened trees show signs of ravaged bark and strange rot. But the clouds give plenty away, too, as they curl around the sky above the vault; breaking and dissipating rather the passing above it.

“It is _leaking,_ ” they observe.

“If there is a leak, then let us hope there is a crack,” Desire reasons.

She checks the next segment of the barrier, but to similar results. It takes the same amount of time, does the same amount of damage. Uthvir stares at a rabbit skull lying in the dirt, and the blackened grass curling at the edges just beyond it, though, and see a flare.

Only the tiniest wisp. If they had not been staring at the right point at the right time, they might have missed it. The orange light trails off further along the border, and then disappears. Uthvir raises a hand, and signal to Desire. They draw the spear at their back and ready it, before they keep moving. The cold haft tingles slightly in their grasp. Echoing the magic in the air. They come upon a fallen log, warped and petrified. The hollows of it twist like a screaming face.

And next to it – branches. Digging into the earth, like desperate, clawed hands. There are deep grooves that imply such branches have been dragged towards the barrier. Caught in some stray, reaching spell. Blackened leaves cluster in the dirt. The leg-like roots spread into the dead zone, trapping the sylvan half in and half out of the barrier. Likely, it fell, and the spirit was dragged out if it and into the well.

But that would not explain the disruption.

They draw closer, and the faintest hint of light appears – small specks in the petrified face.

Uthvir drops down to one knee beside it.

“It is a still alive,” they observe.

Desire’s expression twists, painfully, and she swallows back her obvious outrage. Her gaze moves towards the vault. If looks could kill, they’d have broken through the barrier as soon as they arrived, though.

“The spirit inside must be clinging to the tree with all it has. If it leaves it now, it will be dragged into the vault,” she observes.

“Then we shift the tree,” Uthvir suggests. “Get it further away, until the spirit can safely make it back into the Dreaming.”

“The vault will fight us for its prize,” Desire warns. But it is with the air of someone who has already had the same idea, and is willing to give it a shot.

Desire’s axe is not built for chopping wood, but it is of the sort that cleaving through almost anything is well within its capabilities. After some debate, it is determined that while pulling this off will be a challenge no matter what, getting the deadened parts of the tree back across the border will be nigh impossible. It may still do some damage, but hopefully, those pieces of it have been dead for long enough that they no longer feel pain. Desire hacks as neatly as she can, splitting the dry wood, while Uthvir affixes several tethers to the rest of the dying sylvan. They will have to dig it out of the places where it has grounded itself to start moving it _away_ from the border, but in doing so, they might loosen its hold enough that it is pulled closer instead.

Not ideal.

Once they have a few lines secured, Uthvir goes and starts digging out the petrified wood.

Faintly lit eyes watch them.

“Do you have a name?” they ask.

No answer. It could be the spirit does not know of names. Or it could, more likely, just be too weak to communicate. Even so, the agent places a hand to their chest, before they break up the hardened earth and start easing the wood from it.

“My name is Uthvir. That is Desire. You have been caught in a trap set back Lord Falon’Din. We do not serve him, so we are trying to help you.”

The lights flicker, once, very slowly.

Uthvir pats the top of the face.

“Hold fast.”

Desire gives a tremendous swing, then, and the last of the sylvan’s top half is severed from the bottom.

The reaction is almost immediate. The wards burn, and Desire barely has time to raise a barrier around herself before she is flung to the ground by the backlash. The air tastes like iron and hunger, and the tethers which Uthvir had tied are yanked tight as the vault’s enchantments – apparently now perceiving the sylvan’s top half as a new target it has not grasped, rather than something already within its clutches – begin pulling at it anew. With a curse Uthvir clutches the nearest piece of tree.

But with the vault pulling against them, and the weight of the tree, the strength of their arms will not work.

What _will_ work?

They glance at the flickering lights. There seems a frantic quality to them, now. The particular edge of something near to death, that has finally been offered hope, and has found new desperation to cling to even in futility. _Fight,_ Uthvir thinks.

“Into your head,” they say. “Let the rest of it go. Just come to the wood closest to me. Desire!”

For one harrowing moment she does not answer, and they fear the possible reasons for her silence. But then she is up and beside them, grabbing onto the sylvan as best she can. Her own gaze darts towards its eyes, and her mouth twists.

“We will not be able to get it free,” she grits out.

“It if concentrates its hold to a smaller part, we can cut it off and carry it away,” Uthvir reasons, digging in their heels.

“It is a _large_ spirit, Uthvir! That is how it has been able to hold on so long. But if we cut off anything more of it, then it will be more spirit than tree, and the vault’s pull will intensify,” she reasons, grim and trembling with frustration.

Uthvir curses because she is correct. Because they _know_ she is correct.

Even so.

“We have to try,” they reason. “Unless you can think of something better?”

Desire curses, too, at that, and they know she cannot.

They hold the spirit fast as she cuts, hastily. Tendrils of energy break apart from the splitting wood.

It is not going to work.

They close their eyes, briefly; and then look to the gleaming ones nearby. The spirit will be pulled towards the vault. Shattered, its power fed to Falon’Din; its fate sealed.

Unless…

“You will not go to Falon’Din,” they promise.

The eyes flicker in slow acknowledgement. This spirit is old, they suspect. Likely it roamed the forests here for many, many years. Tended saplings. Kept company of old trees, and other nature spirits. Perhaps never met a single elven soul before Falon’Din came and salted the earth and nestled his vault in the midst of it.

Desire breaks the head off; it is too little for the spirit to hold, and they have no hope of gripping its ethereal form. Green and silver light is dragged towards the hungry dead zone. Uthvir drops the piece of tree they had been clinging so tightly to, and in a fluid motion, as quick as they can, they draw their spear.

The spirit arcs towards the border.

Uthvir throws, and their spear gleams in the harsh daylight as it strikes the spirit.

For an instant there is a figure. Arms like branches, hair like lives; a verdant outline against the backdrop of the devastated terrain, and the warped Keeper’s corpse. And then the spear strikes, and it breaks. Leaves and butterflies burning on the wind. The flare of energy ripples over the wards, and like a strike of unexpected lightning, cracks the space left behind.

For the barest instant, the barriers around the vault shudder. Some of the spirit’s scattered pieces whirl back towards them, and vanish into the trees; before the opening closes, and the rest is drawn towards the dead cage.

Uthvir’s spear lands in the dirt, well inside the circle of death.

For a moment, there is just the sounds of heavy breaths. The glint of sunlight on a single, metal object, splitting the barren landscape. Then Desire lets out a cry of frustration, and hefts up a large rock, and tosses it after the spear.

“Monster!” she cries. “You fucking monster! I am going to kill you! I am going to chop you up into little pieces and make you eat them! I am going to rip out your putrid spine and beat you to death with it! I am going to find a way, and I am going to make you relive every horrible thing you have ever done through the eyes of everyone you have done it to, and when that is finished and you are a shrivelled husk _begging_ for death, I am going lock you in a box and drop you into the middle of the ocean for six thousand _fucking years,_ and then dredge you back up and _cut off your head!”_

She picks up a few more rocks, and sends them spinning after the first one. Her fourth throw knocks into Uthvir’s spear, and fortunately, topples it.

Makes the fact that elves have been here recently just a tiny bit less obvious.

Uthvir lets out a heavy breath, and waits. When Desire has finished shouting threats at an absent despot, and is finally standing amidst the hacked remains of the sylvan, chest heaving, they reach over and close a hand onto her shoulder.

“Come on,” they say. “If this area is being watched, after that display, I imagine we will find out about it shortly. And if not, we can come back with bombs.”

Desire lets out a breath.

But she also hefts her axe back into place, and follows them back up towards the narrow trail away from the vault.

~

They are quiet as they make their way back through the wilderness, along forgotten pathways and secret networks, until they reach an outpost at the edges of Dirthamen’s territory, and pass through the outpost’s eluvian, and then on one of the larger settlements in June’s domain. Sulevinan. Desire has calmed somewhat by then, going weary and vicious by turns until she settles her anger and bitterness back into the more patient corner of her spirit.

“I will need a new spear,” Uthvir muses, when they finally reach Sulevinan.

“Wait until we reach Arlathan,” Desire suggests. “The general can replace it easily enough.”

“And miss an excuse to go to the crafters myself?” Uthvir asks, raising an eyebrow. “Never. I shall charm the requisitions manager instead, and get my spear before we set out again. And a few gifts besides, I think. I have earned some rewards. Why would you like, Squish? Jewellery? A new dress? A pretty new boot knife?”

Desire sighs at them, and runs a hand down the side of her face. But after a moment, she smiles.

“A new knife would not go amiss,” she confirms. “Especially if it is prettier than the one I have. The bone handle is cracked.”

“Then I shall find you the prettiest, sharpest, finest one that a mid-ranking servant’s credit can acquire,” Uthvir promises, offering her a wink and a wave, before setting out into the streets of the city. Desire retreats to the barracks set aside for the general’s servants. Doubtless she will find someone to suitably distract her for a while, and help her regain her equilibrium. Uthvir would volunteer, but under the circumstances, perhaps someone less familiar would be better. More distracting to figure out the ups and downs of them.

Sulevinan is no Arlathan, though it is one of June’s Great Accomplishments. Most of the settlement is arrayed around a giant domed building. The surface gleams and glints, and reflects a water glow across the streets at night. From an aerial view, the whole place looks like an eyeball, in Uthvir’s expert opinion. A big, coppery eyeball, with people milling about pathways that have been carved into the iris, and the central dome serving as its pupil.

Uthvir has no idea what the dome is _for._ It is not a building, it stores nothing, and near as they can tell, the only interesting things it does are look pretty and light up during festivals. But it is something the city is proud of, nevertheless. If it controlled weather for the outlying farms our could erect a great defensive barrier or something along those lines, they might understand that. But when they had asked the general during their first visit to the city’s streets, she had said only that it was ‘challenging to make’, and that it did not, in fact, do anything useful.

“If it is useless and difficult, why do it?” they had wondered.

“To prove a point, and miss one at the same time,” she had explained.

Uthvir thinks of this as the quintessential definition of Elvhenan, really. To prove a point, and miss one at the same time.

They turn through the streets, past housing and gardens, dining halls and theaters. In one of the larger squares, near to the central dome, there is a play being performed out in the open air. Dancers and singers and sets. Uthvir pauses to watch, lingering at the back of the crowd as lights split the air and performers project deceptive emotions, drawing their audience into the illusion of their tale. Then they carry on, down the street towards the Distribution Hall. It takes a few minutes for them to track down their favourite distribution manager, and charm their way into a good number of requisition slips.

That done, they head for the district of workshops and artisans.

Despite the relative gloom and tragedy of their recent mission, there is a spring in their step. There is a particular pleasure, they have found, in finding things for people. In getting them made, or discovering them sitting innocuously on some crafter’s shelf, or buried in the depths of their store room. Uthvir is a terrible customer, they suspect. They rifle through everything, and can take quite a long time, and are very particular. But it is a thrill to hunt down just the right then; and then a thrill again to give it to just right the person.

They stop at the weaponsmith’s, first, and spend an hour there, discussing the particulars of whether they should commission a new spear, or if one of the ones the craftsman has in stock will do, and going over the same matter with regards to Desire’s new boot knife. In the end Uthvir decides to get an unenchanted model of good make – better to have it enchanted at the tower, they think. And in the meantime, it is still something sharp and pointy on hand that they can shove into enemies, should the need arise.

Desire’s knife is one they have modified from an existing piece, too, going over the matter with the weaponsmith until it is determined that the elegant, pale handle they had admired could be attached to a more ruthless blade. They make arrangements to pick the piece up the next day, and then set out again.

Now.

What to get next?

They head through nearly every shop on the street as they search. Clothiers and jewellers and carpenters, armourers and glass blowers and painters. They spend an hour and a half in workshop full of candles and soaps, searching through their inventory before leaving empty-handed, and then do the same in a shop full of musical instruments. The crafters in there are more impatient than most. Uthvir finds themselves lingering just out of spite when they turn rude.

There is a very cheerful maker of intimate accessories who serves as a pleasant contrast, and gets a commission from them; this one to be delivered to Arlathan in a few weeks time, as it is made to rather exacting specifications. They discover a tiny knick-knacks workshop that sells the most delicate figurines Uthvir has ever seen in their life. Small figures made from metal wire and faceted gems of varying values. Elves and animals and more abstractly represented spirits are all lined up on narrow shelves, and there is only a single crafter working there, with barely more than a closet space to get by in. Uthvir immediately expends their remaining resources on figurines, much to the artist’s obvious shock. But the woman recovers quickly, and hurries to place their purchases in cushioned boxes that will safeguard their delicate parts.

“Do you take commissions, or do you only have set models to work by?” Uthvir wonders.

“I take commissions, yes!” the artisan hastily assures them.

“You have nearly everything. But I have an acquaintance with particular fondness for halla,” they explain.

Her face falls.

“I do not have the leave to represent halla in my artwork,” she admits. “My rank is still quite low.”

“But you _could_ do it, in a few years, perhaps, if things improved?” Uthvir wonders.

Her smile turns a bit rueful.

“If they do, I could always let you know,” she offers, with the wistful tones of someone who does not anticipate this happening any time soon.

Uthvir nods in thanks, and considers that things might approve in a hurry, if their gifts are well-received; the regard of a few high-ranking elves can go a long way, and they have not seen items like these figurines in the workshops of Arlathan. Trends do have a way of catching on, and uniqueness is a commodity which the upper ranks devour with the hungry fervour of those whose greatest challenge is boredom.

It is dark by the time they carry their boxes back to the barracks. Desire’s door is shut and locked when they head into their room, and carefully arrange their purchases onto a little shelf, and begin divesting themselves of their amour. They’re halfway through when they hear the sound of steps in the hall. When they’re down to their tunic and leggings, they open the door, and peer out; Desire kisses her latest conquest goodbye, and then catches their eye.

She gives it a moment before heading over to their door. Her gaze catches theirs, and softens some.

“Have a good time?” she asks.

“Not quite so good as yours, I think,” they reply. “But I found some things.”

Heading back into the room, they retrieve one of the figurine boxes, and deposit it into her hands.

“For you.”

Desire rolls her eyes, but fondly, as she takes the top off of the box. She pauses and then her expression falls into honest shock as she reaches in and pulls out a tiny little badger, no bigger than her thumbnail. The black stones in it glint and glitter a bit in the warm, indoor light.

“What is…? It is so small. I feel like it would blow away,” she confesses, marvelling at it a bit.

“I found a whole shop full of them. Pretty enough to impress even my most finicky of recipients, and small enough to easily carry around,” Uthvir says. “I want more. I want pockets full of them so I can just hand them out to people when they are sad. Tiny trees and dancers and frogs and bears.”

“How many birds did you get?” Desire asks, knowingly.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“And what is that tone supposed to imply? I have plenty of bird ones, of course. Birds are pretty, and so the models are plentiful. I think I will give one to Darellath. Or perhaps Dorian.” They seem to recall something about not giving tiny things to babies, though. Except Dorian does not qualify as a baby anymore, they think? Well. They would have to ask the general first, anyway.

“And Thenvunin?” Desire asks. She runs a careful finger over the top of her badger.

They offer up a dismissive shrug.

“There was a swan. I might give it to him. I might give it to someone who actually answers my letters,” they reason.

“You do not know why he did not answer your letters,” Desire points out.

Uthvir shrugs again.

“I checked as soon as we reached an outpost. He has not been ill, he has not been injured. By all accounts he has been serving Mythal well and receiving his messages. The obvious implication is that he has not answered because he does not wish to accept my pursuit. He has finally decided that I really am too far beneath him. Or not to his tastes, for whatever reason. Probably prudent of him.”

Their attempt at nonchalance may have, just possibly, fallen flat there.

Desire reaches over and cups their cheek.

“Perhaps the messages _he_ sent got lost.”

“Or, perhaps he is an ass,” Uthvir suggests.

“You knew he was when you started pursuing him,” Desire points out, with a hint of amusement.

True.

Uthvir sucks in a steadying breath, and then shakes their head. They shrug it off. They cannot control other people’s actions; only their own choices. And there are more important matters – bigger matters – than pretty elves in Arlathan who do not answer messages, at the end of the day.

“I have a brilliant plan,” Desire says. “We will assassinate Falon’Din, see the general exalted to the leadership in the ensuing power gap, and become her highest ranking followers. Then you can shower your Thenvunin in so much luxury he will have no choice but to fall at your feet.”

A pang shoots through them.

“Squish…”

Desire winces, almost as soon as the words are out of her mouth.

“I know. Sorry. That was not…”

Shaking their head, Uthvir waves dismissively.

“Never mind,” they decide. “I suppose I will have my final verdict from Thenvunin when I see him face-to-face.”

There is a pause. Then Desire lets out a breath.

“Are you going to sleep?” she asks.

“Yes,” they confirm.

“Want me to stay?”

They hesitate for a moment, considering. But then they open up another one of the boxes, and pull out the figure that happens to be in – a tiny red shark, by the looks of it. They hold it up in their palm.

“I have my little friend here to help guard my rest,” they say. “We will be fine. Those teeth might be tiny, but they are needle-sharp, I am sure.”

Desire looks them over a moment, and then smiles.

“Alright. But if you sneak into my bed, I will not hold it against you.”

She gives them one last glance, before pulling their door closed, and heading back to her own room.

Uthvir brushes a finger over the shark in their palm, before putting it back in its box.

They think of the sylvan spirit, breaking into the sky, and the image sticks in their mind as they climb into bed.

~

When they finally reach Arlathan, there is more report-giving than gift-giving to be had. The general is concerned over the matter of the spear. Uthvir is not so foolish as to use weapons that could be definitively traced back to them, but it still might serve as a large red warning flare to Falon’Din that rivals are investigating his vaults.

“Only if it is found,” Desire reasons. “The only person who can safely walk through that region is Falon’Din himself. I can hardly imagine him picking through the dirt and old bones at the fringes of it, even considering his paranoia.”

The general sighs.

“I do not like it, even so. You said the enchantments were disrupted when the spirit was shattered?” she checks again.

Desire glances at Uthvir, and shifts uncomfortably.

“Yes, but, the number of spirits that would need to be sacrificed to actually _break_ it would-”

General Lavellan waves a hand dismissively.

“Obviously, that would not be a route worth pursuing. The whole point is to see _less_ damage done, not _more._ But I am wondering if blood magic might not accomplish a similar feat. Or even be more effective, if Falon’Din’s defences are the kind I am thinking of. I think I will send Lathiras with you to go back, Desire, and see what can be done. But first a few scouts should set out to make certain Falon’Din’s forces do not take a sudden interest in the area, thanks to the recent disruption,” she reasons.

“As you say,” Desire agrees.

“I will have to give Lathiras their ladybug before they go,” Uthvir muses.

The general raises an amused eyebrow.

“Ladybug, Uthvir?” they ask.

“Mm. That reminds me,” they say, and reaching into their pocket, they pull out a small box, and extend it. “For you, General.”

The general gives them that look she always does when they present her with gifts. The one where she seems simultaneously to want to tell them to stop, because she has rank and means and really, she can get almost anything she wishes for; and the one that seems to go ‘but it is rude to turn down gifts’. One day, Uthvir thinks, they will give her enough presents that she will no longer be able to muster up any reaction other than happiness over it.

“Thank you, Uthvir,” she says, and then opens the box.

She stills.

Very, very carefully, she pulls out her tiny white wolf. Her gaze is entranced for a moment. And then the colour in her cheeks darkens, just the slightest bit.

Uthvir catches her eye, and winks.

Desire sighs at them.

“You people and your followers of Mythal,” she bemoans. “You know, _Sylaise_ is supposed to have the pretty ones that no one can resist.”

“I am sure I do not know what you mean, Commander,” the general says.

“Likewise,” Uthvir adds.

Desire does not quite have the right of it, though, they find themselves thinking, after the meeting is done. The general’s unexpected and sudden fondness for Mythal’s wolf is obviously an infatuation returned. As it should be. Uthvir had honestly thought the general possessed no inclinations towards sex or romance, but apparently, she was just very particular.

Thenvunin, on the other hand, does not seem to return Uthvir’s regard at all.

When the discussions and meetings and careful, quiet plans are done, Uthvir at last has leave to wander freely. They give Lathiras their ladybug, and Aravasha a lynx. Darellath gets a tiny tree and Dorian is permitted to pick; after careful consideration, he settles on the snake. Haninan takes a tiny mouse, and then Uthvir sets out in the city, and deposits a few more into the hands of friendly acquaintances.

Then their feet find their way towards Mythal’s estate, and they inquire after Thenvunin.

“He is at the palace, attending our lady,” one of the servants says, apologetic.

Uthvir nods in acceptance, and then looks down at their last little box.

“Would you be so kind as to send this to him?” they ask. “Anonymously, if you please.”

“Secret admirer?” the servant asks, as they take it with the care of one who is accustomed to handling delicate packages for fickle, high-ranking elves.

“Something like that,” they agree.


	11. Ar Lasa Mala Revas

General Lavellan’s hands are careful, when she takes the markings from their skin.

Her fingers glow, and she tells them to close their eyes. She kneels in front of them as they sit in a chair, in a warm room full of soft, quiet things. In a small village at the outskirts of Sylaise’s territory. Their face tingles, and they feel the markings itch a bit as they go. As the glowing fingers trail light behind their closed lids, and their forehead  burns a bit, and then their cheeks, and at last, their chin.

When it is done, they raise their hands to their face, and brush the smooth surface. Their face feels much lighter, somehow.

“You are free,” the general says.

They do not know what to do with that.

“I will have to take on June’s markings,” they know.

“You will seem to,” their rescuer tells them, as Desire lowers a hand onto their shoulder. They glance up at her, and she winks at them, and runs a hand over her own face. All at once, June’s markings wisp away; like vapour into the air.

She runs the hand down again, and they come back. Scrawling themselves across her face. The markings shine and gleam for a moment, before settling into the usual, dull lines.

“It is a spell,” they realize.

“You are free,” the general tells them again.

Then she sets about showing them how to cast it.


	12. Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt requesting fluff!

“Dance with me,” General Lavellan asks Pride. Her smile broad, her eyes glittering from behind the silvery angles of her decorative, ballroom mask.

And.

Well.

It is not as if Pride is going to say _no._

He is immediately and intensely grateful for his dance instructors as the general takes a step back, and bows, and extends a hand gracefully towards him. She is clad in black and silver and a dark, iron grey that matches most of the contingent from June’s people. Suitable to the decorations of her brother’s anniversary celebration. Suitable also to the lines of her form, as the edges of her coat flow down towards her calves, and the tops of her boots reach up towards her thighs, and give her, overall, the look of someone who could easily move from dance floor to battlefield with little fuss between.

Pride takes her hand, as his heart jumps.

“I would be delighted,” he accepts.

It is almost a surprise, as she pulls him into the first few steps, to remember that he is taller than she is.

She smiles at him throughout, her hand warm in his grasp as she takes the lead through the throng of dancers. It is not a difficult pace, though. He keeps up with her easily enough, and when they whirl to part, she does not resist his efforts to take the lead himself for the next segment. It is customary for the dance, but given her rank, it would also be well within her purview to lead for the entirety.

Most thoughts of leadership and following flee him soon enough, though, as he is captivated by the feel of her pressing closer through various steps. He should say something, he thinks. But all the words he tries to muster seem to go flying clear away from him with each new movement. The moonlight streams in through the top windows of the building. It makes the fine fabric of his outfit gleam. Makes the white fur on his shoulders look like it is glowing. And it catches, too, in the silvery lines of the general’s outfit. In the surface of her mask, that looks now as if it has formed from some molten pool in a blacksmith’s forge.

His cheeks flush, and not just from exertion.

Lavellan smiles at him as though equally enchanted, somehow. How Pride could enchant her, he does not know. There are more beautiful elves she could dance with. More experienced elves. Even more vulnerable elves, to go in another direction. _Less_  experienced elves. So why she should choose him, why she should look at him, now, as if there is no one else in this ballroom that she would rather be entwined with… he does not know.

Somehow, they manage not to say a single word between them before the dance ends. Pride swallows, and begins to drop into a bow, to politely thank her for the dance; but the general catches his hand, and halts him.

“If I may presume,” she says. “Could we share the next one, as well?”

He could dance with her all night, he suspects. He had enjoyed dancing before, but he might well adore it now.

“Of course,” he agrees.


	13. Agents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt requesting some of General Lavellan's people hanging out. Aili belongs to Little_Lotte! <3

It’s an active evening in Ess’ tavern, in the lower city streets of Arlathan.

The days following festivals usually are. As the nobility sleep off their own festivities, it is not at all uncommon for those of lower ranks to carry on with theirs. Enjoying the brief reprieve offered from judgement or management, or punishment for the wrong sorts of revelry. It’s a hot summer evening, and the lower reaches of the city are baking. The excess heat created by the summoning of magical energies for various ceremonies and displays in the upper city has made even the controlled environment of Arlathan sweltering almost everywhere save the high gardens and palaces.

In a rare display, then, most of the doors in the lower city have been flung wide open. Propped to stay that way, with the window coverings taken down to let in the breezes, and help the heat seep out of the city’s walls. Bright lights spill onto the grey streets. From a distance, Arlathan gleams more from the bottom up than the top down tonight. Riots of uncoordinated colour, as small spirits flit about, and opened doorways grant glimpses of painted walls and billowing curtains ordinarily kept safely tucked away from sight. Lest they offend the delicate balance of the city’s aesthetic.

A dark serpent lounges in one of the tavern windowsills, wrapped around a cool bottle of ale, balancing the frosted glass surface with the heat soaking in through his scales. A rowdy bunch of city workers and maintenance people, servants of June and Sylaise and Mythal, by and large, drink to the success of having thrown another festival without accidentally lighting the sewers on fire again.

“Three years in a row. Definitely worth drinking to!” Ess agrees, to cheers as she brings them another round of bottles, and then goes to check on the slightly-quieter patrons further to the back of the tavern.

The group assembled there is lounging in some of the more comfortable chairs, drinking at the sedate pace of those celebrating with less noise and more exhausted relief. Various pieces of armour and gear have been abandoned in bits and piles alongside the chairs.

A large, gorgeous elven woman marked as one of June’s occupies the only two-person couch. Desire. Her beautiful hair is coming out of its elaborate style, and she is wearing little more than a shift; the layers of her armour having been peeled away over the progression of the evening. Ess is not actually certain if the rampant undressing can be pinned to a few rounds of one of General Lavellan’s odd little card games, but it seems to be rampant.

Next to Desire, a petite blonde elf, with dark skin and violet eyes, sprawls in her own segment of the couch. She scratches lightly at the markings of Ghilan’nain on her face, and looks the most bone-tired of the bunch. The skin of her feet is flushed with the telling signs of a recent multitude of healings.

“I am never, ever going into the sewers again,” Aili says.

“You might have to go back tomorrow,” Desire tells her.

Aili makes a wounded sound, not quite protest and not quite a whine.

Finishing off the little seating area is a lithe, golden-skinned elf, with June’s writing done all in copper on their face. They’re perched on the arm of the couch, and as Aili voices her despair, Uthvir makes an attempt to reach past her and grab a fresh drink from the ample supply on the little table in front of her. They miscalculate, either drunk or tired or both, and end up slumping straight into her and Desire’s laps instead.

“Oops,” Uthvir says, and promptly makes no attempt to get up.

Desire smirks and pats their head.

 _“Uthvir,”_ Aili protests. “I just spent an hour dragging you up through that stupid outlet! Could you not crush me?”

“You are my hero,” Uthvir informs her. Or rather, informs the cushion where their face has gotten wedged between her hip and Desire’s.

“Thank you. Now get off,” she asks.

Ess rolls her eyes, as, yes, of course, Uthvir turns that into some kind of innuendo, which just goes flying right over Aili’s head. One of the little golden spirits that forms Desire’s entourage flits between them all, happy as can be.

From their own rather more dignified seating position, Lathiras snorts at the antics of their compatriots. They’re the most dressed of the bunch by far, having kept everything except their boots and gauntlets in place. Though in concession to the casual atmosphere, they’ve left their long, black hair loose, and cast it in rippling waves over the back of their chair. A single glass of blackfire wine is held delicately in one of their hands. Burning, of course, with purple flames.

Every so often, they take a sip from it, and then make a face, and then invariably crack apart into frantic coughing fits.

“For pity’s sake, drink something milder you pretentious ass,” the woman in the chair next to them finally instructs, reaching to take the glass from Lathiras. Unlike everyone else in tavern, Elalas is still wearing her boots; though she abandoned her coat, belt, and vest to the arm of her chair. Sylaise’ markings are dark on her face as she reaches for the glass and Lathiras lifts it high and bats her hand away.

“No,” they insist. “I am enjoying a quiet drink, stop harassing me.”

“Your incessant lightweight sputtering is pissing me off. Go have some honeyed mead with a drop of milk in it instead,” Elalas says.

“That is a daytime drink!” Lathiras protests, lifting their glass up high enough to evade her reach, only to find it plucked from their grasp by a tall figure with skin nearly as dark as their hair.

Dirthamen’s markings stick out in a stark white scrawl across the surface of Turmoil’s face as he downs the blackfire wine in a single drink, and then essentially dumps the empty glass back into Lathiras’ lap. The architect tips their head back and glares up at him.

“What the… are you _naked?”_ they demand.

Ess does a double-check herself, but Turmoil is wearing a set of low-slung leggings, to her relief. She would not relish having to threaten anyone with expulsion from the tavern unless they met minimum dress standards.

“I could be,” Turmoil says, smirking.

Elalas grabs up a scrap of cloth from beside her chair, which seems to be a shirt, and throws it at the servant of Dirthamen.

“No one wants to see that!” she declares.

“Now, now. Let us not go making hasty over-generalizations,” Dorian requests. The general’s son, by far one of the most auspicious persons in the lot of them, is sitting closest to the table. Turning various liquor bottles over in his hands, and only half watching his friends as he toys with the magics in the drinks. Ess can still remember when he was just twenty-eight, and somehow managed to cancel every single bit of illusion work on her shelves.

“Pectorals,” Uthvir mumbles, in what might be agreement with Dorian’s sentiments towards Turmoil. Aili is still trying – with not too much actual force, it seems – to roll them off of her lap.

Ess gives them all a moment and takes stock of their supply of food and drink. She reaches for a few empty platters, only to find her halted by a familiar hand on her arm.

From his own post opposite the chaos of his drinking companions, Haninan tugs her into the seat next to his.

“Leave that a moment, and just sit with us, Ess,” he requests.

The bawdy party closer to the bar lets up another cheer. She glances back at them, but their drinks are still plentiful, and their spirits high. And the atmosphere in this part of the tavern is warm and friendly, she can admit. It reminds her a bit of when she was a teenager, running around trying to listen in on General Lavellan’s meetings.

“I can hardly stay long. Some of us are still in working hours,” she replies, nevertheless sinking onto the cushion beside him.

“Some of us work too hard,” Haninan opines.

“ _All_ of us work too hard,” Dorian says. “It is the one thing we have in common. Apart from being devastatingly good-looking, of course.”

“Here here!” Desire cheers, lifting her glass and nearly losing half of it in the process.

Ess takes a moment to be glad that none of this group are mean drunks. Or belligerent, either.

“Look at all my beautiful children,” Haninan sighs, pressing a hand to his chest.

Desire grins at him.

“You are going to have to stop lumping me into that group one day, Pretty Eyes. I will make you feel odd when I finally manage to seduce you.”

“I am still waiting for you to put some sincere effort into that,” Haninan tells her.

“Duly noted,” she replies, with a wink.

Ess just rolls her eyes at them, but even so, settles in a bit against the back of her seat. The chairs were a gift from the general, nearly two hundred years ago now, after Turmoil managed to get into an argument with Elalas and Dorian, and half the seats in the tavern wound up melted to the floor.

“What do we have left to do tomorrow?” Lathiras wonders, reaching for a fresh drink and glaring at Elalas when she sweeps the bottle of blackfire away before they can top off their glass. The former slave takes a swig of it herself, and then hands the rest of it into Turmoil’s safe-keeping. Lathiras is left to sweep up an ale, which they insist upon holding like a delicate wine anyway.

“Six corridors to unseal and that tunnel to Dirthamen’s estate to dig out,” Dorian says. “For those lucky souls who draw the short straws.”

“I hate the sewers,” Aili reiterates.

“I told you to wear boots,” Desire tuts.

The blonde elf mutters something indistinct, which is eventually pried out of her as the fact that she doesn’t actually _own_ any boots.

Uthvir shifts around and falls off the couch again.

“I will get you a pair!” they declare from the floor.

“I _do_ get paid for these jobs. I can buy my own pair,” Aili insists, colouring a little self-consciously.

“I can go scavenging for some,” Uthvir counters. “Want to come? Although, come to think of it, you probably should not. There is a lot of scrap metal around the incineration chambers and dumping piles. Not much fun without proper footwear.”

“Again, just like I said, I can buy my own shoes!”

“It might be a moot point, depending on how all the lots are drawn,” Dorian says, interrupting the back-and-forth as Uthvir gets themselves up on the floor, only to prop their back against the couch.  Days like these are the days when Ess is most glad that she didn’t take General Lavellan up on her offer of a job.

Though, there are moments when it still feels like she works for her, even so.

“Best get that done then, while we are all still sober enough,” Haninan suggests.

The attention level in the group spikes upwards, then, as he shifts around and produces a small magical sphere, filled with glowing white lights that swim through the substance of it like little fish. After contemplating it for a moment, he plucks one of the lights out. In his grasp, it turns into a small, white, paper-like slip.

Then he hands the sphere over to Dorian.

Dorian draws his own light, before passing it onwards. It moves from Uthvir to Aili to Desire, to Elalas, and Lathiras, and Turmoil, before Turmoil finally brings it to her. A few more of Desire’s little spirit friends have accumulated by then, and Love has turned up to crawl into various laps like a happy cat.

The little sphere that Ess takes is empty. But with the familiarity of long practice, she thinks of a group of numbers, and dispels it.

Three of the slips light up.

Lathiras’, Turmoil’s, and Haninan’s.

“Oh thank pity,” Dorian says.

“Hooray!” Aili chimes in, flopping a hand across her brow.

“Kill me,” Lathiras requests, glaring at their lit up strip.

Turmoil nudges the back of their chair.

“We can excavate the tunnel last. Then you can stay in Dirthamen’s estate with me overnight,” he suggests. “Leave through the eluvian in the morning, instead of climbing back out through the access points.”

The architect sighs, but does seem a little comforted by the notion.

“Does the invitation extend to me, or will I be left to make my lonesome climb back up to civilization?” Haninan wonders, turning his own bright strip over in his fingers, before it vanishes away.

“You can just teleport to freedom,” Turmoil tells him.

“I cannot _actually_ teleport,” Haninan insists.

Turmoil looks unconvinced.

A rise in the ruckus in the other part of the tavern catches her attention, then. Ess looks up at the call for more drinks, and with a sigh, gets back to her feet and back to work. She calls back in acknowledgement, and gathers up the empty platters. Heads back to the bar to retrieve some more bottles, and shoo away an over-zealous patron who had thought to make some selections themselves. Darellath comes up from the kitchen, then, with the last round of cooked food. She takes a fresh platter to the rowdy table, and lets the younger servant bring some more to the quieter group.

Looking over after a minute, she sees that Darellath has fallen into their seats with them, in turn. Uthvir has managed to sprawl back into the ladies’ laps, and Elalas looks to be caught in a heated debate with Desire over something or other. Turmoil is draped over Lathiras’ chair, and Love is curled up under one of the tables with two of the little golden spirits; radiating contentment.

Ess smiles, and feels it, too.


	14. Grandfather

When Dorian looks twenty, on a night when he feels a thousand years old, he steals a bottle of strong-smelling blue-green wine from Ess’ tavern, and gets absolutely _plastered_  on it.

He drinks until he feels loose. Until the screams are quieter, in his mind. The sticky rim of the bottle pressed to his lips, his thoughts quiet as he sits in his room. He’d rather be out someone in public, with more distractions. But he can’t be. Anyone in _public_  would stop him. Would treat him like some awkward child, tutting at him and pulling away the mean, nasty alcohol.

Babies mustn’t touch.

There are days when he thinks this is a such an ironic fate. Back to being the coddled scion of a great and noble house, and yet, it’s all twisted in on itself. Elves rule the world, and don’t care one whit for anyone’s sexuality unless they want to pursue them, and his family actually… is actually…

Sometimes Dorian doesn’t know what to make of his ‘family’. Of a friend who’s adopted him, and a grandfather who dotes on him, and an uncle who… well, June is fairly standard for him, actually. And Sylaise.

And isn’t that a hell of a thing? He’d always known Tevinter was built on the bones of conquered elves, but to actually _see_ it, to see just how much of it there is, to see that his own people all but lifted up the worst parts of it, and married them with other, still terrible things, and seemed to only acquire anything of actual merit or charm _incidentally…_

He empties the last of the bottle, and wonders if it all isn’t fated to burn for a reason. All the empires. Just, burn them all. Let the Maker sort them out, if he manages to find the time to actually exist.

Dorian doesn’t hear the door to his room open. But he _does_  feel the hand, gently closing over his. Lifting the empty bottle out of his grasp.

He blinks up at his self-proclaimed grandfather. At his grandfather, truly, he supposes. Because Haninan wants to be. Acts the part. Seems to still like Dorian quite a lot, even when he’s big and not quite so cute anymore.

“Still cute, though,” he mutters.

Haninan reaches over and pats his shoulder.

“Of course you are, my adorable grandson,” he says.

Then he makes Dorian get up, and move, which is irritating. But Haninan has a strong grip, and can be difficult to deter when he’s set on something. He draws Dorian up into one of the room’s chairs - when did he end up on the floor? - and then seems to summon a glass of water out of the ether. Or possibly goes and gets one while Dorian is blinking at the ceiling tiles.

He makes him drink it, before casting a spell that clears Dorian’s senses somewhat.

Then he sinks into the chair beside him.

Dorian waits for the inevitable reprimand. Or question. Or expression of concern. He looks over at Haninan, but Haninan is only sitting there, staring mildly at the bookshelves. Checking for new titles, it seems. As if they have only reached a lull in some late luncheon, discussing spell mechanics and ancient prose and folklore.

“If you are going to tell me off, then you had best skip it,” Dorian finally asserts.

“I was not going to tell you off,” Haninan says. “Though if you would care to talk, I would like to listen.”

And that is just… Dorian does not know what to make of it, sometimes. That lack of expectation. Haninan is brilliant, and his family is prestigious - however on the outs he might be with his eldest son - and Dorian is, by all rights and appearances, an heir. But the expectations placed upon him are so few and fleeting. Everyone is always telling him to take his time, go at his own pace. Always enthusing over his accomplishments, and forgiving his transgressions.

It cannot last, he knows. And some part of him cannot help but fear that the allowances disguise indifference.

And yet, he has seen indifference. The real thing, coming into play, directed towards him in his youth. And whatever his worries, part of him knows it can’t be that.

“Sometimes I do not know what to do with it all,” he admits.

Haninan is quiet for a moment.

Then he reaches over, and rests a hand at the back of Dorian’s neck. Gives him a reassuring squeeze.

“That is usually a sign that the burden should be shared.”

“What burden?” he scoffs. “I have lived in wealth and luxury for two lifetimes over now.”

“And I once spent more than a thousand years in paradise, where my worst sufferings would quail in comparison to the average life of anyone from your time,” Haninan tells him, frankly. “It was purest bliss, really. Yet I still had burdens. Even then.”

His grandfather’s hand is a steady weight. Comforting, and assured, and Dorian sighs, and feels the urge to just fold into the greater wisdom of Haninan’s many years of experience. To let go, and be looked after, a while.

Such a novel thing, to want to do that and then _actually_  do it.

“What if it always comes to this?” he wonders. “If it is not blood-soaked Elvhenan then it is blood-soaked Tevinter. And then perhaps another empire, should the world survive long enough for one. What if there is no way to make the world a better place? What if there is never any end to it? I was so blind.  When I was a young man. I probably still am, come to think of it. I used to scramble for reasons, and excuses. Tevinter couldn’t be _that_  bad. Everything I had been raised to value could not be a _complete_  lie. Surely there were slaves who were happy, surely that was fairer than poor folk living without care or oversight in other lands. Surely the chance, the slimmest chance, offered by the hope of a mage child, was better than none. But it was… it was rotten. We built all our greatness on rotted logs. Built and built, gleaming, and shining, and then the whole fell through. _I_ fell through. To another layer, only to find the rot was still there.”

He tapers off, and goes quiet. His throat feels thick, as he remembers one ill-spent evening when he was much closer to actually being twenty-years-old. Running off to go and buy an evening at one of the brothels in the poorer districts. His palms sweating, trembling, afraid and excited, certain that at any moment someone he knew would spot him. Buying an evening, and he had not even thought, he had not even _considered_  what that meant, for the person he was buying it from. It was just how things were done. It was just… just, what was available to him. And so he took it, and felt like it was fair, because he paid for it.

This Elvhenan. It is such a mirror of Tevinter. It makes him look at all the little failings and hypocrisies dead in the eye. Like a room where all the furniture has just been moved slightly to the left, unveiling all the hidden patterns of dust, and the flaws in the moulding, and the odd spacings here and there. Cracks in the floorboards, as the rug rolls up. Mould on the walls, where the gold paper is peeled back.

“If it is inevitable, then it hardly matters what anyone does,” Haninan says. “But if it is _not…_  that is a different story. I will tell you something I told Lavellan, once.” He pulls back his hand, but gives Dorian’s shoulder a squeeze as her withdraws, folding his arms instead. “In order to create a world where people do the right thing, the only obligation you have is to do the right thing yourself. You may be mistaken, but anyone can be. An honest effort is all anyone should ask of you, Dorian. Just do what you believe to be right, and hope that others will, too.”

He goes quiet, at that. Thoughtful, as his skin still buzzes with the lingering weight of his short-lived binge drinking.

“Is that really all you want from me?” he wonders.

Haninan considers it. In the soft light of Dorian’s parlour, he looks… just about as ancient as he must be, all at once. Thousands of years, locked in a face that could be Dorian’s brother or father as easily as grandfather.

Well. Apart from them technically being different species, and all.

“I want you to be happy, too. But asking someone to always be happy is a tall order,” his grandfather decides. “So, yes. We shall keep with that, I think. Do the right thing. And know that I will forgive you, if you cannot. I love you. There is no failing in you that will erase that, my adorable little grandson.”

Dorian groans, and Haninan reaches over to pat at his cheek, before he bats his hand away.

“Grandpapa!” he protests.

He doesn’t lean away, though, when Haninan gets out of his chair to bend over and kiss his forehead. He scrunches his nose, though. Just on principle. 

“I am hardly _little_  anymore,” he grouses.

“My overgrown, adorable grandson,” Haninan amends.

Then he goes and pilfers one of Dorian’s new books off of his shelf, and settles into his chair again. Reading quietly, with an air which implies that he is quite fine to do just this, but that interruptions would be fine enough, too. Dorian slumps in his chair and watches him, and feels something ease in him. Letting go of his spine, and his lungs. Letting him breathe, a bit more.

No matter how awful it is. No matter how strange. He is not alone.

Is this what proper family feels like, he wonders?

It’s… nice.


	15. Good Days and Bad (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desire x Uthvir!

This is something Desire learns:

There are good days, and there are bad days.

On the bad days, she feels wrong. Wrong in herself, and wrong in the world. There is a sinking itch that crawls down her spine, and settles behind her ribcage. A loathing that bursts from the very core of her, and settles beneath her skin. Makes it feel heavy, and ugly, and worthless. Grief nestles into her belly, and reminds her of her failures. Every move she makes feels pointless. Every thought she has, every action she takes, it all sits jarringly to the left of right. She cannot smiles or laugh without feeling like a liar. Cannot alleviate the awful feeling, or escape it.

All she can do, really, is wait for the next day, and hope that one is better. And try not to burn any bridges, incinerate her wardrobe, chase off her friends, or send her axe careening through the wrong target in the meantime.

But on the good days, she can step out of that. On the good days, she hardly thinks about who or what she used to be, or why she has a body. She can laugh. She can smile. Dance, or sing, even, if the situation calls for it. She can rest in someone’s arms and simply enjoy the experience. Can delight in the satisfaction of seeing a desire fulfilled, of seeing happiness in someone else’s eyes, and feeling it settle into her own bones, too.

And a good year, she finds, is one where the good days outnumber the bad.

She thinks of this, on the tail end of a bad day.

She is out on another scouting mission with Uthvir. In Sylaise’s territory, this time, meeting up with some of the General’s friends among her sister-in-law’s ranks. There is a spirit among them. Grandeur. A haughty creature, bright and sparkling, but also very large and demonstrative. As befits it. It is only a few centuries old, she gathers. But still. It is hard not to make some connections. Hard to bite her tongue, when she hears the spirit is considering taking on physical form.

It is different, she reminds herself. It is different, when a spirit chooses. She knows that. Firsthand.

And yet part of her wants to warn the spirit off form some notions. She finds her gaze following it, here and there. Finds herself distracted enough that Uthvir quietly takes the forefront of the mission, debriefing the other agents and gathering the maps and messengers they are meant to carry back with them. The reports, verbally delivered, and even making some small talk, as she tries not to stare, and tries not to brood, and fails at both.

Grandeur takes her hand, before she goes.

“You make a good show,” it tells her.

She offers the spirit a smile.

“You are a beautiful spirit,” she replies. “May you find what you desire.”

It shimmers, acknowledging the sentiment. And then she and Uthvir go, and Uthvir is quiet as she broods. As they retreat from the outpost, and set off down the wilderness paths. Past fields and valleys filled with purple trees, and glimmering flowers, and birds of every colour and description. The inner segments of Sylaise’s lands are most artfully landscaped. But out on the fringes, in the wilder areas, the seeds of her careful designs tangle in rampant forests and bizarre jungles, in places where streams turn pink or rosy gold, like blood in sparkling white wine, and odd creatures co-mingle and form bizarre ecosystems. Silvery frogs leap between trees, and mice that glow in the dark dash amidst the underbrush, and snakes with scales like rose petals twine their way across white-gold tree branches. But the mud still spatters across gleaming surfaces. Moss still reaches up delicate bark, and much of the straining, sprawling wilderness here is dying; too specialized to survive outside of its gilded cage, and yet, still too wild to refrain from trying.

It does not help her mood, much, to think of that.

They do not make it back to the first eluvian before evening. When the purple trees get too old and are left untended, their foliage becomes too top-heavy for their trunks; they find the evidence of this failing as they come across a part of the path where one has collapsed, in their wake. Its broad trunk splintering, purple leaves strewn all about it like some grim tableau.

“We should check to see how long it is,” Uthvir decides. “We may be better off just climbing over it.”

Desire nods in agreement, and takes down towards one end, while Uthvir sets off towards the other.

This tree, she decides, made a fair go of it before it finally gave up. The trunk is cracked. Not just from the impact of falling, but from the strain of growing. Growing and growing, until it was so big, there was no other fate left for it but to fall. The closer she gets to the roots, the more she finds that the trunk is gnarled and warped. Crushing itself as it grew. The bark is torn. Boring insects have dug tunnels throughout it, gathering up the sticky sap that still leaks from the wood in places.

It was probably already dying when it fell.

She gives up after going a ways, and heads back to find Uthvir shaking their head.

“Climbing it is,” she agrees.

“Want to wait until morning?” they suggest.

But she is already at it. Eager to put it behind them. To leave this particular part of the world, and hope that she can leave some of her ill feelings behind along with it. She secures her axe at her back and begins finding footholds, scaling a tree trunk the size of a small house. Uthvir follows readily enough, no protest flying from their lips.

She glances towards them, as they climb. Watching their face, as they heft themselves up, light and nimble. And curious, too, when she catches them peering into a few hollows and holes.

Sometimes she wonders…

A tiny flash of light flits across her vision, and she blinks and nearly loses her foothold.

She manages to keep it, though, and then stares as a spirit – not much bigger than her hand – materializes between herself and Uthvir. The little thing is more wisp than anything else, round and cheery, radiating shifting shades of green and gold.

“Hello!” it chirps, like a little bird. Blinking at her with sunset-orange eyes.

“ _Luck,”_ she recognizes, letting out a breath. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to stay with the others in Arlathan.”

“I do not know,” Luck says, wispy little arms stretching out in a fairly convincing approximation of a shrug.

Uthvir snorts.

“You _do_ know,” Desire insists, letting out another grumbling curse as she resumes her climb. “It is not safe out here. There are things that eat spirits, you know. Especially adorable little spirits who can never just keep themselves to themselves.”

Luck flits around her, casting little patterns of light across the tree trunk as it follows her up.

“Very dangerous,” it agrees.

Uthvir outright chuckles, at that, and she gives them an irritated look.

“Do not laugh, you will only encourage it,” she scolds.

“It is _Luck,_ ” Uthvir counters. “If any of them could go traipsing through deadly dangerous swaths of wilderness and never once encounter anything more perilous than a butterfly, it is this one.”

“Yup!” Luck agrees.

“Shush,” she commands, even though they are both… not wrong. Spirits are not always absolute in their fields, and even luck can only go so far. Maybe _especially_ Luck can only go so far. It is the tiniest of Glory’s children. It was barely bigger than her fingernail when it first manifested, and she cannot help but be protective over it.

Every single one of them is precious beyond measure.

When they get to the top of the trunk, she reaches over and scoops the little spirit into her lap. It hums happily at her, morphing and distorting like a cheery blob.

“You go back in the Dreaming,” she instructs. “And then go back to Arlathan.”

“Hmmmmmm… no,” Luck decides.

Uthvir, to their credit, manages not to laugh that time. But they look like they want to.

“ _Luck,_ ” she snaps, but the little spirit does not look even remotely intimidated.

“Yup?” it asks.

“Go. Home.”

“No,” it refuses again, clearly pouting over it now. “Luck will stay. Luck will stay in the dangerous forest _forever._ This Luck’s home now.”

Desires lets out a sound of aggravation.

“Oh for…!”

“Here, come on, do not get into arguments with Luck,” Uthvir soothes, closing a hand over her shoulder and then leaning down to scoop up the spirit themselves. It goes readily, clambering up their arm and chattering a bit about probabilities and forests and how Honour is a mean, mean spirit who does not appreciate its properties well enough.

Desire lets out a breath as Uthvir buffets Luck with some reassuring fondness – she should have done that from the beginning, she realizes; she should have known it probably ran off because one of the bigger ones was picking on it again – and eventually coaxes the stubborn little back into the Dreaming.

“You go make sure the animals all have lucky dreams until we get back to Arlathan, alright?” they suggest.

“Luck can do that!” the little spirit agrees, and flits off as if it had never vowed to become some forest-bound wild spirit in the first place.

Thank goodness for its short memory.

Desire runs a hand down her face.

“That was well done,” she concedes, ruefully. It seems today, she cannot even be a good caretaker to what she still has left to protect.

Uthvir reaches over, and brushes a hand across her cheek.

She stills a moment at the contact. The soft brush of their skin, warm and gentle; the faintest, lightest scratch of their nails, running along her cheekbone. She glances at them, and they settle their hand onto her shoulder.

“I do not much care for this trip, either,” they admit.

She lets out a breath, and does not suppose that they would.

Leaning sideways, she bumps up against them for a moment. And it helps, to her surprise. The sickly curl of self-loathing in her eases, just a little, on the climb back down. When she makes it to the bottom and then gives Uthvir a hand for the last leg, holding their golden fingers between her own for a moment. Brushing her thumb against the side of their palm, and letting go with some reluctance.

The sky overhead is a brilliant sunset. Like fire burning over the purple tops of the trees. A little further down the road, there is another fallen tree. Not quite so large as the one at their back, but still big enough to make her heart sink, and prompt a curse from her lips.

“Are we going to have to climb over these damn trees all the way back to the eluvian?” she demands.

“I can fly up and find us a route around, if it comes to it,” Uthvir reminds her, raising a placating hand. “And at least this gives us a good spot to make camp.”

“Fine,” she spits out. Angry at the situation, but not them. She scowls at the tree trunks, as her skin itches with sweat, and she hates it. Hates it and wishes it was somehow _more_ , all at once; as if the confines of her flesh should at least have the decency to pull her away from the twisting routes of her thoughts, and the ache of her feelings.

Uthvir is quiet as they set up the tent. She gets the fire going, and at least it is dry, she thinks, as the sky turns from a riotous blaze to more distant embers. She strips off her gear, leaving aside her axe and keeping only to a light shift as she feeds the fire, and then roots around in her pack for their travel food. When Uthvir wanders over, she hands them some dried fish and flatbread, before breaking her own into pieces.

The two of them are quite while they eat.

Uthvir peels off their outer layers, too. They always look much smaller in just a tunic and leggings. The firelight glows through the tips of their long nails as they pop pieces of food into their mouth. It spills across their skin, and she aches a little at how it almost makes them glow.

They catch her looking, when they are done, and raise an eyebrow.

“See something you like?” they ask.

She snorts.

“You are gorgeous,” she confirms, settling back a bit and letting herself openly admire them. She cannot quite keep it to the superficial, though. She never really can, with them. She does not even want to.

Even if it makes her feel guilty, sometimes.

They return her admiration, smirking; but the cockiness falls a bit short, in the quiet, when it is just the two of them next to a warm fire. They tilt their head, and reach over to brush a feather-light touch down the side of her arm.

“Want to?” they ask, raising an eyebrow.

She does not need to wonder what activity they are referring to.

She almost refuses them. Sometimes physical distractions are a good thing, when she is like this. But sometimes they just make it worse, too. Especially when the focus is on her, and not her partner. And Uthvir, she knows, will direct things that way, because they always do when they are fretting over her. Sometimes that can leave her feeling exponentially worse. Like she is using them, even though she knows she is not.

On days like these, having her own little desires fulfilled can only serve to remind her of the bigger ones left denied.

But then, sometimes it reminds her, too, that the world holds more than just the wreckage of what she has lost.

“In the tent,” she decides.

Uthvir nods, and takes her hand. They put out the fire, and draw her towards the tent. It is warm inside, and the blankets are soft. But their lips are fierce, where they press to her own. Unhesitant. Their hands are firm, where they touch her, and it does help, she decides. It helps, as they slide them up under her shift, and their caress seems to chase away the sticky, stagnant feeling of wrongness in her skin. If only for a moment. Their nails scrape down her back, and the sharpness of it eases it, too.

“Just like that,” she encourages, resting her hands on their shoulders and pressing a trail of kisses down their jaw in return.

“You are gorgeous,” they murmur to her, pinning her down and grinding their thigh up between her legs. The firmness there, too, the solid weight of them, pressing against sensitive flesh, is a blessing. Their hands close around her breasts, fondling too tentatively, by contrast, until she coaxes them further, and then they get the full message. They are not rough with her – she never can quite get them to be – but they do not tease as they devour her with hungry kisses and scratches, assured touches that fire across her nerves and leave little room for anything beyond sensation.

They are beautifully fierce, sometimes. Their lips on her throat, and their hands on her hips, unyielding and intent. On good days it makes her laugh, makes her grin, and tease them, because in them it is a wondrous quality.

On bad days, it makes her think of Falon’Din.

But on _this_ bad day, she needs it, she thinks. So she just pulls them closer, whispering a request that they are only too happy to comply with, as her legs wrap around them. She lets out a breath as they thrust into her. Losing her thoughts to the litany of their compliments, as their hips snap and her flesh stretches around them, delicious and electrifying.

“More,” she requests, mostly meaning they should go harder. But they frown a little, and slow for a moment instead; stealing a breathless kiss from her before she can object. She squirms against them, and lets out an appreciative sound as they pin her arms in place.

And then their hips snap, and there is _more._

The sound of mingled surprise and arousal that escapes her seems to distract them, though, and the pressure inside of her decreases again. They pull back a bit, a look of concentration in their eyes, and she realizes they are making themselves _bigger_ for her. Shifting themselves larger, with each steady thrust, as the pressure inside of her builds and she grips the sheets in her hands, tossing back her head as they go, and go, until she is straining in earnest to accommodate them. Her toes curl and her hips shift, trying to meet them and almost edging away at the same time. Their rhythm slows even further, as each slide of them takes more effort and care on both of their parts.

But it is a remarkably thorough distraction.

On one long thrust, then, they press flush up into her, and she comes. Calling out their name, as the sensations burn through her, and cleanse.

Almost all at once, then, she feels the peculiar sensation of them reducing back to their normal size; no longer able to focus on the shape, but they make up for it with the rapidity of their thrusts, as they take her until they crash over their own edge, too.

They loosen their grip on her enough that she can get her arms around them, and pull them close. She peppers their forehead with kisses.

“That was brilliant,” she tells them. “That was so good, my lovely heart. How did you even manage that?”

“Talent,” Uthvir informs her.

She snorts, and lightly smacks the back of her shoulder. But she does not refute the claim, either.

And when she finally falls asleep, she still has them in her arms. Her flesh tingles with the fierce glow of their aftermath, and her heart beats steadily in her chest. She holds them tight to her, and wakes in the morning to find that they have shifted around so that she is pressed up against their back. Their chest rising and falling steadily, as her cheek squishes against the back of their shoulder, and her palm rests over their ribs.

“Uthvir,” she sighs.

They shift, just a little, but do not wake. There is no weight to her lungs, though. No hollowness in her bones.

Maybe today can be a good day, then.


	16. Tournaments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt requesting a tournament wherein General Lavellan and Pride both participate. :3

It begins, in point of fact, with Elgar’nan, and a tournament to determine who will take over a military posting in his lands. The tournament is, of course, an internal affair. But any good sporting event offers an excuse to gather. Elgar’nan extends an invitation to several other evanuris to attend as spectators and guests.

June declines, but sends her in his stead. She goes easily enough. The tournaments are interesting to watch, and it’s always a good chance to get a feel for the abilities of the other rising warriors out there. There’s always the risk of becoming too complacent, and assuming that everyone of skill is always a known quantity.

Elgar’nan hosts his tournament in his canyon palace, within distant sight of the glittering, gleaming borders of the southern tundra. There the natural ice and snow loom against the fiery barriers meant to hold it at bay, and the ground turns to odd, cracked earth, replete with strange plants and unpredictable spirits. The palace itself sits behind gleaming walls and barriers of flame, behind which the weather is as placid and sweet as any given day in Arlathen. The nearest settlement rests within the canyon itself; a hive buildings overlooking the distant river, which carries incongruous snow drifts and ice flows along with it, until they melt beneath the relentless glare of the sun. Most of the villagers stay indoors, she knows, until nightfall; when the canyon glimmers with moonlight reflecting off of the odd pigments in the rocks, and the desert looks more like an ocean instead.

The clan came here once, long ago. She often thinks of it when she visits. When looks down at that river, and remembers her mother, sitting on the bank. Shining like a rainbow-coloured jewel in her dragon form, before her scales settled to a placid blue, and she stretched out her long neck to drink. Spirits dancing through the air, while the clan’s banners waved, and June sat with her, the both of them freed from their chores while everyone rested.

Ireth had looked up and spotted them, and then flown up. Swift and quiet and far less gusty than anyone so large should have been.

“What are you two doing, out in the broad sunlight?” she had asked, landing beside them, and sweeping a sheltering wing out over their heads.

“It is not so hot as all that,” June had protested.

“You will worry your father sick if you faint,” Ireth countered. “You two should be napping. June, you know better. You have been here before.”

“We were just watching you, Mama. It is not as if we wandered miles off for a hike,” her brother insisted, but their mother was not to be swayed. She had swept them up, Lavellan recalls. Grabbing the back of her shirt with careful teeth and sweeping June along with her wing, carting them like unruly children even though Lavellan had been well past grown again by then.

It puts her in a wistful mood. The ache of Ireth’s loss is an old one. Like the ache of Solas’. Like the ache of her world. But still it crests up in flurries, every now and again, and when it does it makes the world feel emptier. The air less full. The brightness of things is diminished, and every failing, every pettiness, every corruption feels more and more like another step down the path to more senseless pain and death.

Lavellan declines to join in any of the mock matches at Elgar’nan’s tournament. Mythal and Sylaise send a few of their champions - Thenvunin and Tarensa, and three of Sylaise guard whom she helped train centuries ago - and Andruil comes herself, along with some of her skilled hunters. Ghilan’nain and the brothers send only messengers and a few gifts, but there isn’t any insult in their absence.

Andruil challenges her to a match, in honour of the tournament’s winner.

“We would should show her how true champions fare,” the huntress suggests.

But she is in no mood to let the evanuris politely win, which is the politically smart thing to do. And if she beats Andruil, she will have to endure the woman’s bruised ego and harassment on the subject to a frustrating degree. There is no winning.

“I have no interest in showing up Elgar’nan’s chosen on the day of their victory,” she replies.

Andruil persists a bit, but eventually relents. She would not care to seem to be pleading, after all. The champions of the day are congratulated, with much esteem passed around. Elgar’nan seems pleased enough with the results.

When night falls, she treks back out to the village. Most of the elves there know her, if only distantly. Some are older than average. None old enough to remember the days before their village was built, though. The handful who would be lie sleeping in chambers further off into the desert, where their spirits dream the deepest dreams.

 _Would you ever go and join them?_ she had asked Haninan, once. When she was just two hundred, and time seemed so long, and her purpose so difficult to grasp. She had felt ancient, then.

 _Only if your mother did, I think,_ her father had replied. _And your mother would only go if you or June did. I suppose we would all follow one another, then. Dreaming together._

She sets up in one of the village rooms, and watches the light reflecting in the canyon.

Her own mood is melancholy and reflective when she gets back to Arlathan. Her contingent joins with Andruil’s, since the woman is planning on heading back to her city holdings. But by contrast, the fighting seems to have riled up the hunters’ blood; and in a few months, it is announced that Andruil is holding a tournament.

Fortunately, she is free from the trial of having to attend that one, and doubtless deal with the huntress’ challenges, by virtue of her duties elsewhere in her brother’s lands. When she returns, though, she finds that Sylaise has been taken by her competitive streak, and that tournaments are apparently abounding; her sister-in-law invites the whole of Elvhenan, it seems, using the city’s facilities as the stage for her grandiose set of challenges.

“You will champion me, of course,” June tells her.

“I will,” she agrees. Not that they lack for other champions, but with something of this magnitude, declining would make talk. She doesn’t want talk, at the moment. Not about her, anyway. Though she might have a chance to build up the rift between the evanuris sisters, if she handles things correctly. She’d tried, in the early days, to win Andruil over to their side. But she’s been fairly sure for a long time now that the huntress is more liability than asset.

Mythal and Elgar’nan can keep her.

The pair send their own champions to the festivities, of course. And show up themselves. Elgar’nan appoints Victory as his chief sword. She expects Mythal will choose Thenvunin, or, given the greater magical versatility of these proceedings, perhaps one of her grand battlemages.

She selects Pride.

Which is… unexpected.

Not that Pride isn’t talented, but he’s still young. This is a large tournament to blood him in, more open to spectators than most of Andruil’s games or the usual proving rounds. It’s more conspicuous than she thought Mythal planned to make her wolf.

It’s also dangerous. Not so much as a battlefield, but accidents do happen.

After the champions are announced, and the contenders for the lower rounds are also decided, the proceedings break for mingling and preparations and refreshments. She debates a moment, before making her way over to Mythal’s people.

“Mother of my Brother’s Wife,” she greets, with an appropriately polite bow.

Mythal smiles at her.

“General. I see your brother has as little variance in his champions as ever,” the evanuris replies, congenially. “Not that I am criticizing. I am fairly certain you will take the day.”

“No greater faith in your own champion?” she asks, straightening up and looking towards Pride. He is a wolf again at the moment, glancing towards her even as he seems caught in conversation with several of Ghilan’nain’s people.

“In terms of singular champions, I have no one who compares to you,” Mythal says. “I can admit that. My best hope of changing that is affording opportunities to those with room to grow. If you would be so kind, show my Pride what you are capable of. Do not go gently with him. I would have him know the heights to which he aspires.”

Lavellan pauses, considering.

She wonders. Does Mythal really want to see how Pride measures up? Or is this some effort to open a rift between them? Does she want to see if the lauded general will hesitate over the pretty face she is rumoured to be taken with?

Does she want to see if _Pride_ will?

Knowing Mythal, it’s probably all of the above.

“Your champion is promising. Perhaps luck will serve him where experience has yet to build up,” she offers, with a parting bow.

“I fear your poor brother would not be pleased with that,” Mythal says.

“Alas, my poor brother,” she agrees.

_Do not go gently with him._

_Show my Pride what you can do._

Well. There are plenty of ways to accomplish that without resorting to savagery. She is never cruel to her opponents in these things, and it would probably be more telling of her to _start_ behaving that way.

Pride catches her before the start of the ceremony. Wearing his elven form, then, and the armour she gifted him. He looks magnificent in it, she must say. It moves well with him, and he wears it comfortably; smooth and quiet as he progresses towards her. If she didn’t know any better, she’d never guess he was shockingly young for this sort of thing.

But then he looks at her, and there it is. The spark of nervousness in his gaze. Uncertainty, trepidation. Some excitement, some fear.

He pauses, and then bows. After a moment, she bows back.

They are both champions today, after all.

“It seems you have been earning Mythal’s favour by leaps and bounds,” she observes, smiling a bit, easing her sense of welcome towards him.

His cheeks colour.

“I would credit your help with a significant portion of any progress I have made. And your gift, as well,” he says. “I have no illusions of who will win this tournament. Though I did overhear your conversation with my lady - and I would be most appreciative if you heeded her suggestion.”

She sighs, and shakes her head.

“When did the followers of Mythal develop such reverence for my skills?” she asks.

“You are not poorly spoken of in our circles,” Pride assures her, with an expression which implies he’d be arguing on her behalf if she was.

“Well, I am glad to hear that. But even so, I would rather not have this match be deemed a forgone conclusion. Nor any of my others, come to it,” she says. Psychological warfare has its place, she knows, but there’s something disquieting about thinking of Pride going into this fight expecting to lose. It reminds her of too many old things, she thinks. The world keeps dredging up grief and futility. And as time marches on, as his very presence heralds the shift towards another progression in fate, everything has taken on a certain perilous edge.

What’s coming next?

And after all this time, can she possibly be enough to face it?

“I would not insult you by failing to do my best,” Pride assures her.

She looks at him, a moment. Her fingers itch to trace the curve of his cheek.

“Nor I you,” she says, instead. “Just… take your eye off of the grand scheme of things, perhaps. Look for your openings where you can find them, and do not presume that your knowledge outweighs your skill.”

Pride nods at her in acknowledgement.

“I look forward to our bout,” he says.

He means it, too. Considering how long it’s been since she could practice with him, she finds herself wondering if he’d missed it. She knows that _she_ has, but her circumstances are a little different, of course. Pride’s still building up her opinion of her. Through letters and encounters, gestures both tentative and bold. She has been trying to let him set the pace. To judge him by his own merits, but even so. She had figured her own sentiments out fairly swiftly. The benefit of experience is on her side, and of course, long lost history. Part of her can scarcely believe she finds him so compelling. That time and distance and lifetimes of experience haven’t erased what drew her to him in the first place.

Part of her can’t be surprised, though. Part of her knows herself too better by now.

She checks her armour, and clears her thoughts a bit before the first rounds for the champions begin.

Sylaise’s champion is her first match. Telfanim is one of the showier fighters in her employ. Meant to put on a display, she suspects; though they also have a persistent desire to prove themselves to her, which tends to manifest in challenges and a habit of leaping at tournaments such as these. She remembers them as a Spirit of Daring, centuries ago. Watching her leap off the backs of beasts, race down the mouths of chasms, square off with massive and deadly foes. Not that she ever _felt_ particularly daring, to be honest. Even the spirit had seemed more fascinated by the absence of its own qualities, in many ways, than by their abundance.

Now the elf stands across from her, wearing Sylaise’s markings. In shining armour, pale against their skin, their features locked in concentration. Their stance is good. Not aiming more for style than substance, today.

She stands, and waits.

The signal blares.

Telfanim charges, of course, despite what she suspects may be their better judgement. They sweep at her, and their blades ring as she blocks their strike. There’s a good deal of force behind it. A solid rush meant to stagger her, but it’s not quite enough. She grins at her opponent from between their crossed blades, until they bound backwards, and try their luck again. It’s her most infuriating style to them, she knows. They try and get her to move, and she makes them do it instead; barely shifting from her place as she redirects or outright blocks their blows, with sword and shield, turning in place to meet them until they unleash their magic on her. That, too, she deflects, lifting her shield and using her perception of it to slide the spells off of its surface. The metal of it expands and shifts along her grasp, and moves more dramatically than she does.

Still, Telfanim’s familiar with this style of hers, and not to be underestimated. They withdraw their assault, taking a moment to circle around and catch their breath.

“Toying with me, General?” they ask.

“Me? Never. Can you not see me quaking in terror behind my shield?” she returns.

Her opponent narrows their eyes, and then makes their second strike; a physical charge that feints into a magical blow, blue flames licking up as their sword moves one way and the spell arcs another. It’s a good idea, if their goal is to get her to move; and on most days, she probably would give up the game and evade. But today, she is full of contrary impulses. She wants to withdraw, and she wants to evade. She wants to walk off and decline this entire tournament. Today’s one of those days where she’s tempted to just take everyone she cares about and pile them onto a ship, and set sail for some distant, uninhabited shore and start over. Leave Thedas to the fate she sometimes fears is inevitable.

And yet.

Today, she also wants to show off.

Telfanim’s maneuver has left them off-balance. She ignores the spell and moves forward, slamming her shield against them and knocking them clean off of their feet. The magic, in turns, slams into her back, but she’s ready for that; her armour does its job, trying to diffuse the energy of the attack across as much of its surface as it can. It rings as the flames lick over it, and the backs of her shoulders burn, and the rest of her tingles with a sensation that’s just on the tail edge of pain.  But not enough to distract from her opponent, who staggers beneath her return assault.

She slashes her blade through the air, and a gust of windswept energy follows the arc of it. Telfanim drops their sword to raise a barrier with both hands, but that leaves them with little recourse against her next charge, as she batters the barrier down with her shield and then rests her blade atop their shoulder.

Sylaise’s champion blinks up at her, a little wide-eyed.

There is a moment, before they signal their forfeit.

“General,” they say. “You are still on fire.”

“I know,” she replies, withdrawing her blade and helping them back onto their feet. “It is making my teeth itch.”

The flames do go out by the time they clear the ring, at least, making way for the next match-up. Elgar’nan’s Victory defeats Ghilan’nain’s champion, but it’s a fair bout. Much longer than her fight with Telfanim, as both combatants take their time getting a feel for one another. Victory abhors defeat, though – naturally – and Ghilan’nain’s champion is nearly as new to these proceedings as Pride is. She doesn’t embarrass herself by any means, but the direction of the fight is consistently in her opponent’s favour. It becomes more show than match-up halfway through, then, as both combatants take the opportunity to display their skill and bravado; her match with Telfanim has set the tone of the proceedings.

When Elgar’nan’s champion claims the match, it’s to cheerful applause. She takes a moment to go and congratulate him, and then to offer praise to his opponent, too. The structure of the tournament is such that neither she nor Telfanim are out of the proceedings just yet, though. The day will be full of matches, as the champions of various evanuris prove their mettle, and compare their skills to one another. There will be only one winner, determined by the overall results.

There is another break before the next match. More mingling, and conversing; boasting and betting. She takes a moment to chat with her brother.

“Your rabble are all placing their bets on you,” he tells her.

“Loyal of them,” she replies.

“I am surprised anyone is taking them up on it,” he says, loyal in his own way. “Andruil’s people seem convinced you will lose out to their champion, for some reason.”

She follows his line of sight over to the huntress’ chosen. It takes her a moment to place the woman’s name. Tulin. Not one of the evanuris’ usual picks for these things, but then, Andruil can cycle through favourites quite quickly when the mood takes her. It’s as likely that her hunters are eager not to have it be said that they bet against their own, though. Mythal’s people are loyally backing Pride, too, as near as she can tell, and Falon’Din’s wouldn’t dare to be seen supporting anyone else. Different methods, but the results are much the same, in the end.

The next match of the day is Pride’s.

He’s up against Falon’Din’s man, Allure. It’s not a fun match to witness, come to it. She can’t help but cheer for Pride, of course, but Falon’Din’s champions get their losses taken out on them in spades. Allure fights like someone who knows the beast at their back is far more alarming than anything at their front, and Pride’s smart enough to tell why. It makes the bout rather painful to witness. And yet, probably only to those who are aware of every factor at play. Outwardly, Pride and Allure are both beautiful, and graceful; Pride incorporates an economy of movement to his style that make him efficient, but there’s also no denying the bombastic flare to his spellwork. Allure, too, is more subtle than most, his features tight with determination, the air around him biting and cold.

She tenses when Allure gets a bladed spiral of ice to strike at an opening in Pride’s barriers. Pride’s armour frosts, and the ice shatters; not nearly sharp enough to break through the metal, of course, but enough to stagger him. To surprise. He recovers swiftly, though, evading the next attack, and trying to turn Allure’s own assault against him.

In the end it’s the closest match so far, but in a fit of frustrated desperation Allure over-extends himself and Pride seizes the opportunity to sweep him to the ground, and take the win out from under him.

If Allure seems rather brittle at accepting his defeat, she doesn’t blame him.

As the match for Dirthamen and Andruil’s champions is set up, Pride is swept up in the congratulations of Mythal’s group. She goes and makes her way to Falon’Din’s contingent, which is significantly more subdued; the evanuris himself bristling with displeasure. There isn’t much for it, she thinks. Unless Allure manages to secure an overall win, things aren’t going to go kindly for him. Other evanuris might take victories from a myriad of sources. Falon’Din, however, only accepts the most absolute kinds. And to fight in his name is, in his mind most of all, to carry his reputation on your shoulders.

“Your champion did well,” she says, anyway. “I would venture that was the most exciting match of the tournament so far.”

Falon’Din scowls at her.

“This farce? As if I care. It is little more than a playground for pawns that lack the skills to serve substantially beyond times of war,” he asserts.

A thousand angry rebuttals vie for position on her tongue, but she glances at Allure, and swallows them back. Riling or insulting Falon’Din further won’t help. He can’t touch her, but she knows full well that he’s the sort to take his anger out on those he _can_ at the nearest available opportunity.

“If that is how you feel, then perhaps you would prefer to discuss more grandiose concerns,” she says, and in short order manages to get him locked in a debate with her about several of the small, unclaimed islands along the border of Nameless territory. There is room to expand the terrain of them, easily, to create outposts and watch towers, and even ports from which to send expeditionary ships out to investigate the further reaches of the sea. Falon’Din, she knows, wants their forces to help him secure the islands enough for this; he’s beginning to turn his eye towards other lands, to other opportunities that might give him what he needs to exceed his current limitations.

There’s no chance she’s going to _let_ him, but she can let him think June’s considering it.

Dirthamen’s champion squares off against Tulin. The women are well-matched; Tulin is pragmatic, as hunters tend to be, whilst Dirthamen’s Suvunin is fleeting and evasive, and nigh impossible to catch out. Neither one of them makes them mistake of expending their strength too quickly. But it’s not a terrible surprise when Suvunin takes the win, either; cutting in close where Tulin’s long-range attacks can’t hit her, and putting the hunter on the defensive until she cracks. It’s a harsher fight than the earlier ones, reflecting the change in tone that Pride and Allure’s match had created. But it’s not quite so daunting to witness, either.

Another break is called after that, and the rosters suitably rearranged to reflect victories and losses. She steals a moment to go and congratulate Pride, who betrays some mixed sentiments over his victory when the eyes of his fellows aren’t on him anymore.

“I had thought… but I am not certain if it was right of me to win, in the end,” he says.

“Perhaps not,” she admits. “Still. The tournament is not done, and it was only one match. At least you will not have to make that kind of choice again today.”

“Pride,” Mythal calls, and he nods politely to her, and then goes to attend his lady.

As their break goes on, the lower-ranking matches spread throughout the city carry on. Sylaise takes her leave to go and oversee them awhile, but June remains behind for symbolic support, since Lavellan’s is the first match of the next round again. She faces down Suvunin, and adopts a new form for dealing with the woman’s magically-potent maneuvers and evasiveness. She’s got no hope of matching her pace, not without expending too much energy too swiftly, but she can interfere with her perceptions, dampening the nearness of the Dreaming and drawing up the solidity of the Waking world in its place. Old Templar techniques, refitted long ago to suit a new world. Barely recognizable in terms of form and technicalities, but the results are more or less the same; Suvunin flounders and stutters as her spells fight her, trying to compensate with physical maneuvers, but her weaponry isn’t good enough to break past Lavellan’s own equipment.

When her last knife breaks, blade shattered against shield, she tosses aside the hilt and drops to one knee.

“I forfeit,” Suvunin declares.

Lavellan relaxes her stance, cheeks flushed and temples pounding from her focus, and bows before she reaches out to help her stand.

“My thanks for an excellent match,” she says.

Dirthamen’s champion inclines her head. They leave the tournament ring together, conversing easily over various techniques as Allure faces off with Tulin. Falon’Din’s champion loses again, and Suvunin winces in sympathy beside her. Pride loses to Victory, and Ghilan’nain’s hopeful fares poorly against Telfanim. The mood over Falon’Din and Ghilan’nain’s contingents is dour by the time Sylaise returns, midway through her own champion’s match, but even by then the direction of the bout is clear. Her next round pits her against Victory, who fights with his typical fervour for the concept of winning. He takes the tactic of trying to wait her out, and make her come to him. She holds most advantages on the defensive, but she takes the bait, switching to a pure offensive form and letting him pit his sheer strength against hers.

It’s a near thing.

But she’s stronger.

Pride wins his next match, too, facing down Telfanim in a manner which suggests that he is most accustomed to countering their style; not a massive surprise, given Sylaise’s combatants tend to take their largest influences from June’s forces and from Mythal’s oldest champions. Poor Allure loses to Suvunin, and Andruil’s Tulin defeat’s Ghilan’nain’s champion. Much to the grumblings of Ghilan’nain’s contingent; who, at least, are less _dire_ in their disappointment than Falon’Din’s.

So it goes; and on the next round, her first match pits her against Mythal’s beautiful champion.

She regards Pride from across the ring for a moment, before offering him a long bow; sweeping out the tip of her blade, a smooth and careful gesture of respect. She straightens to find him doing the same.

At the first sound of the start of the match, neither of them make a direct move. She considers her options, sizing up her opponent as ever. Let him make the first move? No, she decides. She starts to circle him, and he does the same. The sunlight catches in the warm tones of his hair, and glints off of the shimmering, more decorative segments of his armour. He has no shield, but there’s a second blade at his belt. He hadn’t used it against his other opponents. A new style? She considers who might have taught him. There are a few accomplished duel-wielding fighters alive at the moment. Most of them are hunters, and not likely to share their skills with one of Mythal’s people. There’s Turmoil, of course and Falon’Din's Sumeilmi, but they’d be even less likely than one of Andruil’s hunters.

Probably it was Mythal herself who taught him, then.

She tests this theory as she charges him, making the first strike; putting him on the defensive, and he immediately turns it and tries to get in behind her shield.

Yup. Mythal.

Grinning, she shifts her stance, and does her best to keep him off-balance. Inconsistency works well against him, as he tries to anticipate her moves and she endeavours not to follow any clear patterns. They stick to weapons at first. She uses her shield more than her blade; the solid surface deflects the strikes of both his weapons, but more importantly, it makes an impact and keeps him moving. But she utterly abandons any thought of digging in her heels as she had with Telfanim, and lets herself _move._ Mythal fights like water, and Pride is trying to emulate that, following the guidelines of her technique. It doesn’t quite suit him, though. The fluidity of motion comes readily to him, but it frustrates him when he can’t anticipate her, and catches him wrong-footed. And then he tries to compensate by reverting to his own instincts, and trying to put her on guard.

In the end, he’s the first one to break out the spells; after she deflects his latest effort with enough force to rattle her teeth, he sends an attack straight for her, and when she moves to block, sends a gust of wind that wrenches her shield in the opposite direction instead. It becomes a choice of letting go or injuring herself.

Another opponent, another day, she would take the injury.

She lets her shield go, spinning and glinting in the sunlight, and before Pride can seize the opening, summons a gleaming silver barrier that does its work instead. It pulses against her arm, and before he can retract his strike he hits it. The metal of his blades shrieks against the sparking surface, which pulses and then bursts outwards onto him, sending him staggering backwards.

She stares at him, assessing, just in case that did more than she meant it to. But he recovers fairly quickly.

“What was _that?”_ he asks, blinking a little.

“This is a tournament match, not a lesson,” she reminds him, amused.

“Right,” he recalls, colouring a little at the gaff, but recovering to his fighting position. He tries to tackle her new shield, but in all honesty, it’s got several advantages over the metal one. Her heart thrums in her chest as the barrier moves where she wills it, countering his strikes and sending him staggering a few more times. When he drops to one knee, she waits to see if that’s it. But he pushes his way back up again, and circles around her. Trying to figure out how to get past this latest development.

“Should have left me with the other shield,” she says, watching him in turn.

“I told you not to go easy on me, did I not?” he counters.

“So you did,” she rejoinds; and she cannot resist it, then. Her heart is beating and her blood is up, and the air is crackling, and he is circling, shining, beautiful in the sunlight. She rushes him, sweeping her barrier over him to trap him; he lets her, but with the magic wrapped around his own, he fractures it before she can reach him. Even so, it’s her strength against his as he counters her blow with one weapon, and she catches the wrist holding his other, and sweeps his feet out from underneath him. He goes down in a rush, back to the shimmering tiles, and she drops her sword so she can grasp both of his arms and pin them back. Her legs close around his hips, holding him firmly in place, as his muscles strain and he looks up at her with wide eyes.

She grins.

“Break my hold?” she suggests.

“…I forfeit,” he concedes. His throat bobs as he swallows.

She lets him up, taking his hand as the crowd cheers. And it might not be the wisest tactical choice, but he is beautiful flushed and just a bit flustered, and once again, she can’t resist.

She bends down and presses a kiss to the back of his gauntlet.

The cheers increase tenfold.

“Thank you for the match,” she says, beneath them.

Pride shifts on his feet.

“Thank you for the courtesy,” he replies, as she reluctantly lets him go.

They retreat from the ring; she lets him hurry back to Mythal’s people, her lips twitching as he turns into a wolf. On her own end of things, June gives her a look as she moves to claim a glass of water from the small tray by the stands.

“What?” she asks him. “I won.”

“Did you have to _kiss_ him?” her brother asks.

“Be grateful it was just his hand,” she advises. The memory of his lips, slightly parted, as flushed as the skin of his cheeks; freckles darkening against the rush of colour, and his eyelashes fluttering as he looked at her in shock…

Oh yes, she would have kissed him. Move him a few thousand years ago, to the days when they still had their clan, and she would have dragged him straight from the tournament and… well. That wouldn’t be appropriate now for a multitude of reasons, of course. Not least of which being the issues of rank and experience, even before politics and propriety.

 _“Really?”_ June asks her.

“I am going to lose against Falon’Din’s champion,” she informs him. “I feel it is my duty to inform you, just in case you want to make any bets. Or already have.”

“I do not bet,” June says, glancing sideways to where Sylaise is chatting with her champion across the way. “And do not throw the match! Why would you?!”

“You know why,” she tells him. “And anyway, I have won the tournament now. It is only a question of absolute victory, to which the answer is ‘no’.”

He sighs, aggravated; but a moment later he storms off towards his wife.

She watches him go. A moment later her gaze drifts over towards Mythal’s people. Catching that of a certain wolf, who meets it with a telling thump of his tail.

Sometimes she wonders what Ireth would make of this phase of the world. Of Arlathan and evanuris, of Sylaise and June’s role in it all. Not that he would probably _have_ his role in it all, if… but. Well. Sometimes she wonders anyway. Sometimes she wonders what her long-lost friends would make it. What members of the clan, all gone themselves, would think. She never wondered what Solas would have made of that time, though. Some part of her had always thought that if he was out there, he would know. That he would have been part of the time he sent her to.

But now, she wonders. She wonders what Pride would have been like, back in those days. Able to live more like the wolf he likes to be; running through the wilds, wandering across the world. Tending shrines and making camp, and drifting in the wake of a Keeper.

There are always coming from different worlds, it seems.

She lifts a hand to her lips, and kisses the tips of her fingers.

Pride’s eyes go a little wide again, and he shifts on his paws, before ducking his head.

Not far off from him Mythal raises a brow at her.

Lavellan glances at her, and raises one right back.

Come to it, they will have to deal with whatever world they’re in, at any given moment.

But still. Sometimes it’s nice to wonder.


	17. Sewer Expeditions

Never let it be said that Uthvir will not go the extra mile for a worthy cause; and ruining Falon’Din’s day is always, _always_  a worthy cause.

They remind themselves of this as they squeeze their way through the plumbing beneath Falon’Din’s Arlathan holdings. Or at least, they are _fairly_  certain that this is where they are. There are no maps of this section of the city’s layout. Falon’Din refuses to provide any to June’s city planners - a perpetual source of more mundane headaches for them - and any agents caught carrying such a thing would likely be… in trouble, to say the least.

But the pathways are very different, beneath Falon’Din’s holdings. They were built by his own followers, and it shows. The materials are less smooth, the connections less seamless. The pathways for maintenance workers are cramped enough that they have to shift forms just to fit through them in some places. There is no lighting; Uthvir improvises some themselves, with a flare cast over their head.

The waterways drip. Not just water, either. The acrid stench of rotting blood is potent in some places, where Falon’Din’s particular taste in decor and his less-than-expert building planning have collided into leaks and filthy run-off from the moats and fountains of his estate.

Uthvir can feel it. All that blood.

It is what they are looking for.

Every time they find a leak or a good run-off point, they stop, and pull one of the dwarven runes out of their bag. The General had given to them with fairly clear instructions.

“These are illegal, conspicuous, and dangerous,” she had said. “Make sure none of Falon’Din’s _actual_  maintenance workers can find where you put them.”

Uthvir had known the implications of that task when they accepted the mission. But it is still a… _special_  experience, wading into the midst of the foulest parts of Falon’Din’s sewage to hide the runes close to the blood pools. They cover their mouth and try to dull their own senses, to fight the desire to breathe as they wade through the worst of it. They affix the runes to the undersides of pipes, to the deep floors of passageways, until their glow cannot be seen; in places where no maintenance worker would go unless on pain of death.

They feel the blood hum in brief resonance with a flash from each rune, and then it all goes quiet. Still. Seemingly normal.

Then they withdraw, using hasty cleaning spells to get the worst of the foulness off of them, moving back through more tunnels until they can breathe without choking. They are not claustrophobic by nature, but still, the tights spaces and the darkness begin to claw at their awareness. They have to remind themselves that they are not lost; that there is air; that they will be able to get back out again.

They get halfway through their pack of runes before they have to stop. The tunnel they are in has been getting narrower and narrower, and they can hear the roar of water close by. The passage is too dry, the structure of it wrong for being a pipe meant to hold water; but even so, their mind refuses to stop conjuring images of a flood rushing towards them.

They fumble with the front of their vest for a moment, and then pull out a small, curved shell.

“General?” they say.

Another illegal item that the General’s given them to carry; though at least this one is not as conspicuous.

There is the briefest pause, and in those few seconds, in the dark, their mind sees fit to conjure all sorts of imagined disasters. They look up at the shining little flare over their head, and take a deep breath.

“Uthvir? Problems?” the General replies. Her own breaths sound heavy. She is another part of this complex of pipes and passages, they know. Herself and Lathiras, though Lathiras hadn’t lasted long enough to set more than two runes before having to leave. Vomiting too much to keep going.

Uthvir takes a few more breaths. If they do not place these runes, then the General will. And she already has Lathiras’ to get through.

“So… So how many do you have left?” they ask, and try to keep moving. The rush of water sounds louder. The tunnel walls are rough, and scrape a bit against their gear. They remind themselves that this is a good thing; it is a good thing, that they have not been worn smooth by the passage of water.

“Twenty,” General Lavellan tells them. “How about you?”

“Only six,” they manage. It still stinks. No matter how many cleaning spells they use, they suspect the stench of this is going to follow them for months.

“If you need to back out, kiddo, it will not be a problem,” she assures them.

“Back out? I just wanted to gloat. I am halfway done, and you still have twenty more messes to wade through,” they say. “And we got the easy job. Imagine if there is actually a collapse; poor Squish will have to fake an assassination attempt on Falon’Din just so the rest can come and dig us out.”

The General laughs.

“She will not fake it, you know. She never does.”

“Ninety-eight attempts and counting,” Uthvir agrees. “But it is so disappointing every time it fails.” At least Desire knows how to cover her tracks and withdraw. Their inside contacts with Falon’Din’s people have let them know that he suspects the attacks against him are coming from Elgar’nan’s end of things. Which is good. But Dirthamen’s spies tend to spend less time worrying over whether or not the answers they give their leader are the ones he _wants_  to hear.

Turmoil thinks Dirthamen might know better. Or at least, suspect.

Uthvir really hopes there is no cave-in. Every time Desire puts it on the line, they feel their heart leap into their throat.

“Dorian has had some creative ideas on that front,” the General mentions. “Maybe it will work this time. That would make things interesting.”

Uthvir exhales deeply, tilting their head up, and shifting their ribs around the tunnel bend; but finally, it eases up. When they suck in their next few breaths, they can do it without straining their shape around the passageway.

“Do you think they would let you take over his territory?” they suggest.

“I think Mythal would rather shove June’s entire tower up her ass than give me that much status,” the General replies, wryly. “I have to go plant another seed down here. Can you give me a minute?”

“Somehow I will endure without you,” they reply, with a breeziness that is probably not convincing.

They do manage, though. Deep breaths. Keep walking. They find another fetid pool, and make themselves focus. They cannot afford sloppiness, or else the runes could be found, and then traced back to their dwarven crafters; and that would not go well.

It is a risky operation. But if they succeed, the General will seize control of the ley-lines of the estate. With a few commands and the activations of the runes, she will be able to completely bar Falon’Din from his power conduits here. Potentially leaving him without defences. 

It is the first stage of a bigger plan. And it will have the added side benefit of making it very easy to flood his bathrooms.

“We should drown Falon’Din in sewage,” Uthvir decides. “That would be the best way to kill him. Desire can hold him down for it.”

“Shhh,” the General requests.

They go quiet, concerned. Lifting the shell higher, they try and listen in on any strange sounds from her end. But the spell is mostly geared towards voices. Very little else carries through. They can, just faintly, hear the sound of her breathing; and an echo, behind that.

Something else in the tunnels.

They review their mental map of the place, and try to figure out how they could make their way to her location.

“There is a corrupted spirit nearby,” the General finally says, quietly.

“I am coming your way,” they tell her.

“No,” she says. “It is fixed to its location.Sloth, I think. Or maybe Negligence.” A long, frustrated breath escapes her. “This is an issue. We should withdraw. I am going to have to figure out if we can set any more runes around this thing, or how noticeable it will be if we get rid of it.”

“It is large?” Uthvir guesses.

“Big, old, and wedged firmly into place,” the General confirms.

“Meet you in the hunting grounds, then?” they offer. At least, they console themselves, if they have to find a new plan, they can still probably mess with Falon’Din’s plumbing. It is a small comfort, but the runes also have self-destructs; worst comes to worst, they can set them off and achieve some exemplary vandalism.

And ruin all the man’s hideous fountains.

“Tread carefully,” the General advises them.

“Always do.”

It is a mixed relief to pull back. On the one hand, they cannot help but think they will have to _return,_  and make their way through this whole mess again. On the other hand, at least they are finished with it for now. That thought makes it easier, as they squeeze back through the tunnels, and drag themselves through tiny openings, crawling and climbing in the dark until they come out into an access point where the sewers light themselves, and the walls are smooth and much more accommodating.

Then they can follow their map to the agreed-upon exit point, underneath Andruil’s holdings. In the middle of the wilds, just along the fence between her property and Ghilan’nain’s.

They beat the General back, and the air around the ladder out alone feels so much fresher and brighter that they just stand in it for a moment, and breathe.

The access hatch opens.

Starlight drifts in, and more crisp, clean air comes with it. Aili looks down and wrinkles her nose at them, holding up a small lantern. They wonder what time it is. Late, they know; but not quite dawn, it seems.

“Did you forget how cleaning spells work?” their lookout asks. But she still puts down the lantern, and gives them a hand up the last few rungs.

“No,” they say, flopping onto the grass next to the tunnel. “They did seem to give up on me at some point, though.”

The little hunting camp is silent. It looks like all of the others, except the usual sentries are all false, and the spirit meant to be monitoring the area does not truly answer to Andruil. The trees are tall, and filled with a few small climbing rodents; their eyes gleam in the dark. Moss climbs up the wall that leads to the back of Ghilan’nain’s compound.

Aili opens up a canteen at her hip, and promptly dumps a handful of water onto their head.

“Sort of like spitting on a rag to clean up a blast zone at this point,” Uthvir mentions, but she just rolls her eyes, and then casts a cleaning spell at them.

It works much better, that time.

They are fairly certain the scent of Falon’Din’s sewers is burned into their nostrils at this point, but they can also smell a faint whiff of pine and moss behind it, now. And Aili’s own expression clears, just at they both hear the plodding steps of another person approaching from below.

Uthvir lets her help the General climb out, and sighs as the sewer-smell returns tenfold.

“I, um, just let me…” Aili offers, with more hesitation, but the General only thanks her as she does her little water-and-spell trick on her, too.

“I guess this is why you wanted to head north and make camp out in the bog, and _then_  head back,” she surmises.

“Pretty much,” the General agrees. “Can you report back to the city and let Lathiras know that we had to withdraw before operations were complete? Dorian and Desire can leave their posts, now. We have some new developments to go over.”

“Yes! Absolutely!” Aili declares. “What happened? More demons?”

“Actually… yes,” Uthvir confirms.

“Why are there so many demons under the city? Why does nobody else think this is a sign of very bad things?” Aili wonders. But quietly, as she gathers up her lantern, and then hands the two of them their packs.

“Ignorance is bliss,” the General tells her.

“Ignorance is also several high-grade explosive and manipulative runes under Falon’Din’s chair,” Uthvir muses.

“I think I like being in the know a lot better,” Aili concludes.


	18. Perseverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by my lovely lucid dreamer anon on tumblr.

Perseverance has heard of the concept of ‘muses’ before.

Their muse, they think, lies in the Dreaming. It is the Dreaming itself. The images that stayed with them, impressions of grand and noble things, sentiments they wished to embody in a way that would last. For the landscape of dreams is always changing. But there are some, Perseverance thinks, that should be given leave to linger as they are but fleetingly envisioned.

What is good, what is great, what is beautiful in Elvhenan. That is their muse. That is what they seek to preserve.

Their work takes them many long hours. Bodies tire as spirits never do. Their workshop is a small one, located in one of the city’s crafting districts. Barely more than a small studio, and a bedroom attached to it. They visit the public baths when they can recall to; eat when their stomach demands it, though sometimes they lose track of their hunger. The master artisan they are apprenticed to travels, often.

Most of the workshops in this part of the city belong to Sylaise, or her servants. Perseverance is an oddity, with the silver lines of Dirthamen’s vallaslin creasing their face, but it is not often remarked upon. Aelynthi comes, at times, to see if they have eaten today, and to open up the windows and let out the fumes from their paints and plasters. Perseverance knows how to endure unpleasantness, but is still unversed in preventing it.

But their banners are very popular in the city. They are commissioned to help work on a large, sprawling mural in one of the communal gardens, and their spells for water resistance and to keep the colours from fading are subtle, simple things that weave easily with the other enchantments laced throughout the piece. They spend hours upon hours at the mural. They fall asleep in the park, and one of the city’s peacekeepers finds them and takes them back to their workshop. Leaves in their hair and a tiny lizard that has crawled into their pocket.

“You need to be more careful, Perse. There are some in the city who would seeing you lying there and take a liberty or twelve,” Desire tells them, gripping their shoulder. 

Aelynthi says much the same thing, the next day.

“The deadline for the mural is still weeks off. We are not quite at the stage of having everyone camping out in the park, and when we are, we will camp together,” he says, with a furrow in his brow. 

“But I finished the lower border,” they say. They withstood their exhaustion, did not lose focus. Accomplished their goal.

“Did you eat?” Aelynthi wonders. “Bathe? You smell like the park, still.”

“We are _in_  the park,” Perseverance hedges. Their stomach growls, though, and despite the fact that the hunger is not so great that they cannot endure it, Aelynthi and the other artisans send them to go and eat and bathe, with firm instructions not to return until they have done so. And changed clothing, too. Perseverance goes to the bath houses, and back to their workshop to put on their second outfit, and then gets enough food for everyone at the nearest dining hall. They carry it to the park, with spells of binding and levitation.

It is a challenge, to make it all that way with plates stacked full of food. They manage it, though.

When they get back, there is a discussion going on between Sylaise’s artisans.

“Why did we even take them onto this project, though?” Imra is bemoaning, unhappily, as they mix the paints for the next segment of the wall. “We have more than enough artists for this project as it is. The more names attached to it, the less recognition there’ll be to go around.”

“Because Perseverance is talented at this, and it has been twelve years since their master bothered to get them any major commissions,” Aelynthi says. “It is a travesty.”

Perseverance knows their master is… challenging. They do not mind the challenge, though. They make their presence known, and the chatter stops. The food is well-received, and they are permitted to carry on with their tasks once they have eaten. Tiny details must be added to each small square of the wall for the next portion of the project. They focus on keeping their hand steady, and think of their muse. Of Elvhenan. Of beauty that is made to endure, in small increments that become the grand tapestry of their society.

There is an astounding wonderment, in seeing how every small brush stroke can come together to create the greater whole. This is what the empire is, they know. Small pieces, meaningless on their own, but together, able to weave something of true, lasting magnificence.

They themselves are meaningless, they think. It is what they make that matters. That will last and last, through cataclysms that might destroy Perseverance itself.

Aelynthi is not pleased with the end mural, though.

He acts pleased. The results are as they are meant to be. But when the piece is done, and the garden is opened to the city once more, the praise and compliments simply seem to slide off of him. Perseverance does not understand why. Truly, they would prefer to simply move onto the next project as well, but they do not think that is what this is. When he thinks no one is watching, they see Aelynthi look up towards the mural, and cringe.

“Is there a flaw?” they ask him.

The famed sculptor blinks, and looks startled at having been caught out.

“No. None, of course,” Aelynthi tells them. “You did good work, Perse.”

The air around him is subdued, though. There is no exuberance. No satisfaction.

Perseverance follows his line of sight back towards the garden wall. It is meant to represent the city around them, this mural. Tiny figures, each of them dancing in small squares, build up the firmament of a forest of gleaming spires. The heart of it, the wellspring, is a bright star. It is a very pretty, and it speaks well to the image of Elvhenan, they think.

“It is a lie,” Aelynthi says, very softly. So softly that Perseverance is not certain they heard him correctly. But when they turn to ask what he means, he is gone. Disappearing back into the throngs of the garden celebrations, to accept praise and congratulations for their fine and lovely design. There is talk of adding a fountain, as well, and of further commissions. Perseverance’s own name comes up a time or two, but this is largely Sylaise’s crowd. 

That satisfaction of the job is dimmed by Aelynthi’s reaction to it. 

_It is a lie._

What is? All art is an illusion, to some extent. But also a truth. It is the truth which draws Perseverance to it, as a medium. As a craft. Art can reflect ideas and visions, thoughts and aspirations that might otherwise remain formless, or fade. It can make what is fleeting last.

Perhaps it is the tribute to the city, they think. The city is a tribute unto itself. It is its own work of art. Perhaps Aelynthi thinks it is futile to build further reflections of it. Particularly within it; Perseverance can understand that. But there was more to the idea behind the piece than the city, they think. It is a notion, of how it is built. Of what makes it great. The little, insignificant parts, forming the tiles to make a grander whole.

Where is the lie in that?

The question sticks with them, as they contemplate their smaller commissions. They try and ask Aelynthi, but he will not discuss it any further, except to blame his odd mood on the fickleness of an artist’s soul. Perseverance cannot find the lie, no matter how they look at the mural.

It may be a mistake. It may be that they misheard.

But they take extra care to focus on the truths of their artwork, insomuch as they can. Their next few commissions prove unpopular. Some of their clients seek out other artisans. Some return the projects with complaints. One of the city managers comes and does an assessment, and they are transferred to working in a communal workshop in the lower districts, jointly peopled by Falon’Din and Dirthamen’s artisans. Their master dissolves their apprenticeship.

It is a challenge.

Perseverance enjoys challenges, though.

There is a weaver in the communal workshop who concedes to teach them in exchange for some of their monthly pay. It is an interesting craft, and doubly interesting in the techniques employed, to keep low-ranking clothing within city regulations, but still interesting, in its ways. To make fabrics that are soft and light, sturdy and warm, without using materials greater than could be worn by the lowest throngs of Arlathan.

Perseverance does not see much that can be preserved by it, though. It is interesting, but also unsatisfying in that way. Clothes are worn, and worn out, given enough time and use. Especially in the lower ranks. Fabric must serve a utility, first and foremost. But it is a way to earn their keep, and see to their duties. They paint at night, when they can. 

Their artwork remains unpopular, however. The new trends in it are not well-received, even among those with divergent tastes.

Perseverance saves up enough to be able to take a day, and walk through the city. They ponder, as they do. They wonder at the walls, and the fountains, and the gleaming spires.

In the shadow of June’s tower, then, they see her.

It is only for a moment. But in that moment they go perfectly still. The woman is speaking to other elves, but what she is saying or who she is speaking to escapes them. Mythal’s vallaslin is written on her skin, but what captivates them most are her eyes. There is… something there.

Something that makes Perseverance feel like a spirit once more.

Something that reminds them of what they have forgotten. Not in any tangible way. It is like a light shining. Afterwards, they cannot recall the particular features of her face. It seems, in their memory, almost to look like their own face. Like the faces of the servants and low-ranking elves in the workshop. Like Aelynthi’s face. Like Desire’s. They remember the way she moved. They remember the quietness of it. Not meek, but almost weary, as of one who has kept going and going, and knows they must conserve what strength they have, for they are still not at their long journey’s end.

Her eyes stay with them.

They do not speak to her. They do not see her again. But they think of muses, after she is gone. They think of the pieces of the mural, and the insignificant parts, and of Aelynthi’s words.

_It is lie._

_We are not insignificant until we make something greater with one another._

_Each of us is a masterpiece of our own._

_There is no greatness in the vision of this city, that is worth more than the hearts of its people._

Perseverance goes back to the workshop, afterwards. Hours and hours they spend, weaving fabric the colour of a stranger’s eyes. Accents to line within the the pale, muted tones of their clothing commissions. And for once, it does not feel like a lesser kind of artistry. The clothes protect the bodies that where them, they think. The fabrics serve to help preserve the living masterpieces they belong to. Like the enchantments they had woven into the outdoor mural, to guard against the elements.

Elves, too, can be as fleeting as spirits. As ideas. And the dream of Elvhenan, they realize as the hours pass by, cannot disregard them. Or it is no good dream at all.

 _It is a lie,_  they sew, in tiny, rebellious letters; in lining and edges where they cannot be seen.

_It is a lie._

_We are worth more._


	19. Flashback - First Steps

The clan is camped out in a site nestled between the boughs of several massive, verdant trees. It’s an interesting place. Narrow wooden bridges stretch between tree trunks, and lanterns drift between branches. The undergrowth is so far below that all she can see is mist and greenery, stretching down and down. The camp’s shelters are built into the hollows of the trees.

 _Daran,_  they call the site. It’s brightly summer, though, and warm, and most of the elves sleep in hammocks slung above small, platform gardens.

The only downside to the place is that most everyone flies everywhere, and so she’s rarely left to her own devices. There are too many steep drops, and places where she could fall into disaster. Even when she’s just sitting in some garden, left to play with soft puzzle blocks and stare at different types of butterflies, there’s usually some kind of barrier or another around her.

She understands why, but it’s also starting to annoy her. As if her mobility wasn’t already hindered enough, they have to keep sticking her inside of bubble domes.

June becomes her new favourite person for a while, then, given that he’s the only one who seems to think she can be trusted in the middle of a village-sized platform without any magical safety bumpers. June likes being liked, in turn, so her sudden enthusiasm for him has made him more tolerant of ‘babysitting’ duties than usual. They’re in the midst of one of the large campgrounds, June is helping do an inventory while Lavellan practices walking.

She pulls herself up on the sides of some storage crates, abandoning her soft blanket and arrangement of toys in exchange for focusing on her inept motor skills. She wobbles, a bit, using the crates to keep her balance as she lets out some determined huffs, and frowns, and concentrates on standing.

It takes a few tries, but then - success!

She gets onto her short little legs, and manages to let go of the colourful orange crate she’s using, and stay on her feet.

A few more experiments, and she’s toddling carefully away from the crate. She picks a target, aiming for a bright cluster of flowers on the other side of the campground’s central square, and determinedly sets out. She can do this. She can walk. She remembers how, obviously; she just needs to get her body to cooperate for once. Tiny steps, and she halts midway in her journey as a particularly large, turquoise leaf distracts her by blowing across her path. And then she keeps going, wobbling her way past crates, and a small, sparkling pond, and then all the way to the flowers before she finally plops back down onto her backside.

“Lavellan!” June calls, voice sharp. “Lavellan?!”

A frantic note enters his tone on the second call, and she blinks and turns around, and sees him looking by the pond.

“Hi Ju!” she calls, waving.

He looks towards her, and his relief snaps through the air.

“What are you doing all the way over there?” he demands, hurrying over and, to her surprise, scooping her up and heading back to the starting point. “You were supposed to stay by your blanket. What if you had fallen in the pond? Or off the platform? There are big snakes in this forest. Big enough to eat little toddlers!”

She blinks at him, confounded at this sudden display of concern.

“I walk,” she tells him.

June’s steps falter.

He looks down at her for a moment.

“You… you walked,” he says. 

She nods.

“Ya.”

“You walked, and _no one_ saw it? Not me, not our parents, not anyone in the clan?” he asks, slightly aghast, now.

Lavellan glances around, but it does seem pretty quiet out today.

She shrugs.

June stares down at her a moment longer, and then lowers her to the blanket.

“Do not tell _anyone._  And the next time you do it, do it in front of Mama or Papa, at least,” he says.

Well. She supposes that’s not an unreasonable request. It probably _is_  kind of disappointing, in a way.

“Okay,” she agrees.

June stares down at her a moment longer. Then he reaches down, and gently pats the top of her head.

Right before he puts up a magical barrier around her.

…Dammit.


End file.
